Absolutes
by Phantomphaeton
Summary: In which a vow is honored, a wolf keeps his head, and a kingdom rises in the North as seen through the eyes of a queen who deals only in absolutes.
1. Chapter 1

I had to have been about thirteen when reality occurred to me. Thirteen was when it hit me—really, really sank in. I woke up one morning with a crippling agony in my abdomen, sat up, and saw enough blood to drown in soaked into my sheets. The day my red flower bloomed. That was the day I realized that I would never, _ever_ leave the Twins. I suppose it was sort of possible that I would—someday. But there were just so many of us, so many in line before me—that it made the idea of me ever getting married a far-fetched one. It was possible, true. Just not _probable_. I don't deal in possibles. Possible isn't a guarantee of anything. I deal in probables. Absolutes. I have and always will deal in absolutes, not miracles or shady half-ways or maybes or possibles. And because I deal in absolutes, I knew that applying an absolute perspective to my situation would present this very clear outcome: being the fifteenth born of twenty one eligible daughters, by no means a very prominent one, and having no really impressive maternal connections to recommend my suit, the probability of my someday marrying and leaving the Twins was not going to happen. That probability didn't increase in the slightest when my father struck a deal with Robb Stark to exchange a bride for a bridge.

**Five Key Factors to Selecting a Bride—Westeros Edition**

**Factor One: Beauty**

Whether or not he'll ever admit it, the first thing a man looks for is beauty. Realistically, I am a beauty of a girl. Not a conventional beauty, but a beauty that people can clearly notice and I know this because people have told me so on multiple occasions. From a beauty standpoint, there are about twelve possible choices, the least probable of which would have been Jaclyn or Rhea, depending on one's definition of beauty, which tends to be a rather subjective trait. The most probable of us would have been Reina or Aradel. Again—beauty seems to be largely subjective so that makes it hard to tell. I sit somewhere in the upper middle because I have enough pretty in me to be called a beauty but not enough to be showered in attentions simply for being beautiful, like aforementioned highly probable candidates Reina and Aradel.

**Factor Two: Fertility**

Men have overlooked beauty in favor of fertility before. A beautiful, barren woman is dirt on the shoe of the ugly, fertile baby breeding machine. From a fertility standpoint, it is difficult to determine how many choices are available. My father switched wives too quickly. Some of them lasted a while, though, and using this knowledge I suppose the most likely candidate would be Bria. She's not on the list of beauties, mind you, but her mother bore Father eight sons before she finally had her, the only girl, and then died delivering another son maybe two years later. Father still talks about Bria's mother sometimes, how she might have been kissed by the Gods to have given him so many sons. So Bria, with not much else to recommend her, would be the most probable of us to wed because people would be inclined to believe that she should also have this stroke of luck. On this scale of fertility, I would be in the low negatives. As in a fifty year old yak would probably have a better chance of birthing a son. My mother didn't get pregnant for three years after she wed my father, and then was unable to become pregnant again after I was born until she died when I was four. The only child she ever gave my father was me. If son-bearing is the most important factor, then I am the mentally unsound child with leprosy that no one wants to play with.

**Factor Three: Politics**

Father has enough old blood to offer, but because he's had so many wives over the years, his offspring give him a very wide range of politically sound connections. Neither Reina nor Bria can make this list since their mothers were insignificant, but here Aradel has made the cut again. Her mother was a Mormont by birth, and the Mormonts are hardly a connection to overlook. There are maybe two or three other significant choices. Again, I'm not on this list. My mother was the daughter of an architect. There was barely a thimble full of noble blood in her family that enabled her to marry my father. He chose her more for her looks than for anything else she could offer him.

**Factor Four: Manners**

The men who can afford to have this be their only real concern are limited in stock since most men concern themselves with children or money or beauty. But for the rare few that _do_ consider this, then the options are really quite extensive. I don't think there is any single one of us who doesn't know her _basic_ courtesies. We're all bred well enough. Whichever one of us has a mother who died before she could teach her manners had a Septa instead. I learned most of my own manners from my mother, and the rest I gathered from our Septa. Beyond the basics, that's where it gets convoluted. Some of us go above and beyond the basics, and some choose only to be polite enough to not be called rude.

That's it, I suppose. Nothing else to consider. Not if you're noble, anyways. So when the deal was struck and the war was won and Robb Stark walked away from the burning South as a fully recognized king, I paid him no mind because I knew that he'd be choosing from that range available to him based on the four key factors in finding a wife, and the four key factors rendered me pretty much obsolete. And then the day came when he arrived to make good on his word. He walked into these halls looking like the hero in the novel that dies at the end and asked for a week to be able to choose. I was—at this point—ignoring the 4.7 percent chance that I'd be selected. Now that 4.7 percent existed at all under the assumption that each of us Frey daughters had a perfectly equal chance of being chosen. Twenty one daughters in all, excluding the ones that could not be chosen—three were too old and seven too young—but twenty one that stood a chance, ranging in ages from thirty four to thirteen, each had roughly 4.7 percent chance of being chosen if the king was impartial. But humans, by nature, are not impartial people. Everyone has preferences and the fact that Robb Stark has twenty one Frey daughters to choose from means that he can afford the luxury of searching for one he has good chemistry with. So technically, we all have that 4.7 percent, but in the undercurrent some of us have a higher percentage than others. But I don't like undercurrents. It's too gray in there. I prefer the crystal clear world of black and white. No confusion, no possibles and no disappointments. Only absolutes.

During the week that he was with us, I got to wheedle out which ones had a higher chance in the undercurrent. Reina seemed to click with him, and although this is a political marriage, let it not be said that chemistry is out of the question. He was equally enamored by Aradel, who of course would seem like an even better decision because of her ties to House Mormont. Their probability rose to maybe ten to fifteen percent each, give or take a few decimals. The rest of us slowly sank. In the Twins, there isn't much to be found in the way of amusement if you're a girl. I must find my amusements wherever I can, and while Robb was with us I found amusement in the early morning on the stone wall separating the riding fields from the gardens, sketches and blueprints in hand, where I had a perfectly clear view of Robb and his mother on their morning walk through the shrubbery. They couldn't see me from my hiding place atop the wall because I always sat on the space that extended underneath the cherry tree, obscured from view by the branches and leaves. Robb and his mother always chose the morning walk to discuss my sisters and which of them would make a good bride because of the distance it gave them from prying eyes and eager ears. So from what I had heard day in and day out, Aradel had the highest probability. It was reaching maybe thirty to forty percent, and both the beauty factor and the political one played a role in it. Up close behind her was—what do you know?—Bria. I knew that fertility factor would get her somewhere, so it was hardly surprising. She had a good twenty five to thirty percent. Reina wasn't even close to consideration.

"Why?" his mother asked. "She's a pretty girl."

"She's too…too…"

"Too what?"

'_Too what_', indeed?

"Too blonde," Robb said at last. "She's too blonde."

"_Too blonde_?" Catelyn repeated skeptically. "Good heavens, Robb, what a snob you are. Objecting to a perfectly beautiful girl because she's a blonde? Poor girl can't help it."

"I suppose not. But we just…there's nothing there. It just didn't rub the right way."

"Well, chemistry is important," Catelyn agreed, taking him arm as they proceeded up the path. "Well, how about that Marlow? You seemed to get on well at dinner last night."

And on and on they went. Every day, the statistics changed. Robb Stark is many things—indecisive is definitely one of them. An indecisive groom means that Catelyn will do the choosing, which in turn means that politics and fertility might be the focus factors in this decision. So we're back to Aradel and Bria, neck and neck.

It was late afternoon on the seventh day when we were all summoned to assemble in the main hall. There we stood before our family and friends and allies and the king, and the time had come for Robb to select his bride. His advisor, Lord Bryndon Tully, carried a scroll in his hand and the paper was old, curling back outward at the ends. I got a distant look at the stationary, and then something occurred to me. I had forgotten factor five.

**Factor Five: Practicality**

Sometimes, you just need a wife with a brain. A person who knows how to handle people, think on her feet, be mentally flexible. The sort of girl who knows that receiving a yearly allowance of 150,000 gold pieces does not mean that she can spend 100,000 on accessories alone and count on her darling husband to make up for the deficit. The sort of girl who knows better than to wear black feathers in her hair to a funeral. The sort of girl who can listen and respond rationally. A girl who can see reason. The North, only just having crawled out of a great war, is in desperate need of a queen like that. I had forgotten that Robb Stark is not only selecting a wife for himself, but a queen for his kingdom. This is where how many sons you have or how pretty you are or how noble your bloodline is just can't help you. This is where the girl stands alone for judgment. So with practicality in consideration, which of the twenty one eligible Frey daughters could possibly make the cut?

I looked again at the faded border pattern on the scroll in Lord Bryndon's hand. The blueprints for the watchtower are expertly drawn on that rolled up page, and I know that because I drew it with my own hand not three years ago. There, tucked into the corner, is my signature. A bitter storm rolled into the area not long after construction on that tower was completed. It had not taken a single smidge of damage. Of course it hadn't. I'm an architect's granddaughter. I know how to build things that last. And then the poetry of it had kicked in.

Architects build things. The Northern kingdoms are building their own history from the ground up. Who better to lay out the groundwork than an architect?

"Lady Israel," Robb held out his hand and caught mine, pressing his mouth to my knuckle. "Will you marry me?"

I'm fairly sure that I didn't have the option to say no.


	2. Chapter 2

Winterfell looks like it will live forever. I'm _itching_ to have a look at the original blueprints for the place. I'm numb. From the moment Robb kissed my hand in the great hall back home to the second he pulled himself out of me on our wedding night to right now as we inch ever closer to the castle I have been comfortably numb. Not nervous or worried or the slightest bit addled by anything around me.

To be honest, I had been rather put out when he'd taken my hand. When you realize at thirteen that you'll never leave, you start to plan things for the long term. Make arrangements of the permanent sort. Like the adjustments that I'd made to my chambers back home. The mosaic tile bathtub designed entirely in pearl blue custom made in Pentos? Yeah, that thing cost me an entire year's allowance. Demolishing the left wall and setting up a drawing studio? It took four months. The walk in closet? Another month. Every single adjustment I'd made was in preparation to grow old and die living in that room, living in the Twins. No husband, no prospects, no change or even the _promise_ of change. I was engineering my life for long term spinsterhood. Robb's gone and thrown a wrench in the works now. I'm in a position I'd never have dreamed of only a year ago. I was expecting to turn forty in the Twins, but I've been sent out with a ring on my finger at seventeen.

So the married life is strange. Strange as in '_what the fuck is going on here?_' Because that's the question I find myself asking most of the time. It's definitely the travel schedule that is making things confusing, unless Robb really does start his day shortly after sunrise on a regular basis. He rides with his men, I ride in the carriage with Lady Catelyn. We talk and then we sit in silence and go back and forth like this for long stretches of time, then we stop and camps are set up and I bid Lady Catelyn goodnight and get into my oversized tent with Robb and he keeps me up maybe half the night because that's just what newlyweds do. They fuck. From dusk till dawn. And then he falls asleep relatively easily and I do, too—_less_ easily—and then I get in maybe four hours or so before a maid is waking me up because it's time to get moving again. What have I learned from all this? Robb can go for hours. Like a fucking rabbit. I think I've learned more from him when the sun is down than I could have learned about any other topic in the library back home.

Oh, and travelling _sucks_.

It's not until we arrive in the castle that the comfortable numb—which I had been sorely counting on—chooses to disappear and leaves me with a hollow, twitchy, nervous churning in my stomach. Oh, fuck. So the entrance courtyard is huge. Like _huge_. The place is, apparently, smarting from the damage it took at the hands of one Theon Greyjoy a little while back. As if that's not clear enough just from looking at it. It's in need of some serious work. It's _livable_, that much is true. But _livable_ is as far as I'd go. So now it's clear why an architect was needed. The carriage stops at last and the door is opened. Lady Catelyn steps out and I can instantly hear the laughs and muffled words that tell me she's locked in an embrace. The footman holds his hand out to me.

"Your Grace," he greets me.

I take his hand and get to my feet, stepping out onto the courtyard. I look down. Ground. Dark brown, maybe some grassroots shooting up every few feet. Real, solid ground.

Um…_ew_.

Note to self: first adjustment—stonework on the courtyard.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," says Maester Ormond, sinking into a deep bow.

I give him a smile. "It's good to be here," I say.

From inside, I can see that the damage is (thankfully) mainly external. Not much to be done in the way of adjustments, right? Well, I thought so, too, until I got into my—_our_—new bedchambers.

All in all, it's Northern through and through. Fur spread bed, warm hearth, ample living space. The parlor is nice, I suppose. I'm definitely putting in some new woodwork furnishings. It's actually the bathroom that upsets me the most. There, in the very center of the room, sits a huge brass tub. Brass. Fucking _brass_. For two years I've been bathing in that charming mosaic work of art that I sacrificed an entire year's allowance for, and now I'm a queen who bathes in brass.

Note to self—send for my mosaic tub to be taken apart and brought here immediately.

So Robb doesn't stick around for very long, which is definitely a good thing because it leaves me to address a few obvious problems around the place without him looming nearby to freak me the fuck out. The truth is that we don't do much talking. I wouldn't recognize his voice very well if I heard it without looking on account of the fact that most of the noises he makes are sort of the kinds you get when you tease them out of him in bed, which is actually where we've been doing most of our interacting since we got married. But I'm lucky, because now that we've arrived he's leaving for Riverrun to tend to some business of his, which leaves me here, alone, to do what I do best. Well, I haven't got much choice, have I? I was brought here for a reason. Winterfell needs rebuilding. I may not know much about marriage, but if there's one thing I _do_ know, it's building. And with Robb gone for who knows how long, I've got ample time to make myself comfortable before he gets back. I can't work on being the queen and being his wife at the same time. Too much work. First, I'll take advantage of him being gone to adjust to being a queen, and then once he returns I'll worry about my marriage. Seems like a good plan. I collapse onto the enormous bed and even though I have serious trouble falling asleep in strange places, I fall asleep easily tonight.

When I awaken, it's because there's this knocking on my door. I sit up and look around. Two young ladies' maids are shuffling about the area. They both curtsey when I rise, deep and foreign gestures that make me do a double take before I remember that it's normal for them, surely. I'll need to get used to that. I pull on a robe and let the maid pull the door open.

"Good morning, Your Grace," says a deep, clear voice. I look up…and up…and _up_.

I'm one hundred percent sure that this is a woman. There's not a doubt in my mind. She's female. That's an absolute. But she seems so hell bent on projecting this obvious masculinity, from the strange fit of her armor to the close cut of her pale blonde locks.

"Good morning," I say back, smiling as she tips her head respectfully.

"I am Lady Brienne of Tarth," she says. "I am here to escort you to Lady Catelyn in the Great Hall. She will be giving you a tour after breakfast this morning."

"Of course," I say, nodding. "I'll…I'll just be a moment. Come inside, will you?"

Lady Brienne steps into the room and closes the door behind her. I have to bathe and dress quickly—the maids are helpful here. I recognize the sigils on the little chains around their necks. One is of House Forrester. The other is of House Mormont. Perhaps a cousin of my Aradel's?

"What are you names?" I ask them.

"I am Mira Forrester, Your Grace," says the first.

"And I am Julia Mormont, Your Grace," says the other.

Mira and Julia. I watch them both as they help me pull my hair up. Pretty girls. I like their faces. They're…sweet.

"Do either of you have a clue what time it is?" I ask.

"It's a quarter to eleven," says Julia.

"Gods, I'm late," I murmur. "I'm sorry," I say to Brienne. "I don't usually rise this late. Have you been waiting for me long?"

"The first rest after a long journey is always a long one," Brienne says. "It's a long trip from the Twins. You are hardly at fault."

Which is a really nice way of saying that she's probably been waiting outside my door for an hour. Nice. First day on the job and already I've slacked off. I don't even know what to say to her. All I can do, it seems, is get my cloak on and hurry out the door beside her.

She's not much of a talker, this Brienne of Tarth. I can tell when I'm around a talker. And I'm sort of grateful that she's not the conversational type because now I have a little time to address another issue.

"Mira, Julia," I bring them in closer to me. "From now on, I rise at nine sharp. Alright?"

"Yes, Your Grace," they say in unison.

Brienne has her hands folded behind her back. I like this lady. I like the clean cut attitude she's got. I almost wish there were more people like her in the world. But if there were, then the world would be sort of gray.

"Tell me, Lady Brienne," I say. "How did you find yourself in the service of House Stark?"

"I first encountered Lady Catelyn whilst serving Renly Baratheon," she says. "After his death, I swore my loyalty to House Stark. I have been with her ever since."

I don't want to know anymore, because I feel like whichever way the conversation goes, it'll take us back to that one event Catelyn mentioned in passing. Renly Baratheon, murdered by a shadow. I'd stop to dwell on it. I really would. It's just that being murdered by a shadow sort of falls into the category of half-truth—gray. I don't work with gray.

Thankfully, Lady Brienne doesn't seem interested in sharing anymore, so we walk in silence to the Great Hall. Catelyn is there with Bryndon Tully. They're whispering, but about what I don't know nor do I care—at first. But I can't deny that I do get a little curious, mainly because they hush up conspiratorially when I approach them.

"Good morning," I say.

Lord Bryndon tips his head. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning," Lady Catelyn smiles at me.

"I'm so sorry I kept you waiting," I say. "I had no idea I'd slept in so late."

"Not a problem," says Catelyn. "You're not accustomed to such long journeys."

"Well…let's not delay the tour, shall we?"

"Would Your Grace not like to breakfast first?" asks Lord Bryndon, gesturing to the table.

"Oh, I never eat right away," I say. "Perhaps later. How about that tour, then?"

It's not a lie. My stomach churns up a storm when I first awaken. I don't eat anything until at least two or three hours after I first open my eyes. And my constitution is especially sensitive right now with how nervous and worried I've been since I set foot in this castle.

The tour doesn't last very long. The Keep is mostly intact—keyword _mostly_. Other parts of the place have been sealed off for reconstruction and some are too dangerous to even think of going into. The rest just burned. To the ground. It's almost sad. Almost. But the sight of so much to be done just calms my stomach a bit. The thoughts that go whirring through my brain are thoughts of my blueprint book back in my room, the empty pages waiting to be filled with sketches and notes. I can work with this. This is familiar. I'm a builder.

Lady Catelyn walks me back to my bedchambers when the tour is done. She's kind, though she doesn't speak much. Being back here after so much hardship must be strange for her. I feel bad for her, but of course since she's the mother in law I have to magnify that sensitivity for the sake of not appearing totally cold. As soon as she's gone, I go into the chambers and pull out my book, turning to a fresh page. I instinctively turn to the left, but pause when I recall that I'm not in my room in the Twins. I'm in my bedchambers in Winterfell. I emit an aggravated sigh and drop onto the bed, spreading out the book and taking a charcoal pencil into my hand.

Note to self: have the drawing station brought along as well.

Robb comes into the room long after the sun's gone down. Grey Wind comes in behind him, silently lying down on the space right in front of the hearth. I pretend I'm engrossed in my work, but I'm more focused on the way Robb goes to the closet, pulling off the layers of clothing he's been wearing all day. He's tired. Exhausted. Well, honey bunches, that's what happens when you roll your pretty ass out of bed just after sunrise when you're running on fumes because you've been sleeping for maybe three or four hours every night for the past three weeks. It tends to catch up with you. He emerges from the closet and splashes his face with water from the basin.

"Evening," he greets me briskly. His eyes pass over the sketches all over the bed. "Are those…?"

"For the Maester's Tower," I say.

His eyes gloss over the drawings, the words. "You don't waste any time, do you?"

"No time to waste," I say. "Winterfell has been in ruin long enough, wouldn't you agree?"

Robb nods. I pull the hem of my skirts away to give him room to sit down and get a better look. He pulls a page closer and his eyes scan it quickly.

"Double bracers…quarry stone?"

"It's more secure than wood. And it won't need to be replaced since it'll never rot. And the best part—it doesn't burn."

"That is a good point," he agrees, looking at the next page. "Is this a…an infirmary?"

"We'll need one, won't we?" I ask. "And I suppose it'd be best to have it near Maester Ormond."

"But the dispensary will be made of wood?"

"It's a temporary set up," I tell Robb. "Since the likelihood of us needing so much room for medicine is going to go down in the next few months as the wounded are treated and discharged. Then we can take the structure apart and use the wood for something else. Specifically…_this_." And I hold up the sketch I just finished.

"The barracks," he says, nodding. "Of course."

"How many soldiers do you want stationed in Winterfell at any given time?" I ask.

"Four hundred," he says quickly. "At least."

"If we use ironwood to build the dispensary, in a few months' time we'll be rid of most of the medicine and then we can use the ironwood to build the inner braces for the barracks. The outer walls will be eulid stone, since it's so much stronger than quarry stone. The watchtowers will also be lined with eulid stone, but only the lining. Eulid is expensive and we need to purchase and use sparingly. I prefer we only use it in areas that actually need serious protection. Barracks, watchtowers, rooftops, and I'm still debating on the war room—ceremonially, of course."

I look up at Robb, but he's closed his eyes, rubbing them slowly. What did I tell you? Kings can't _command_ themselves to only need three or four hours of sleep. Looks like I'm not getting any ass tonight. No complaints here. I need to be up bright and early to properly sketch out these plans. But still. Ex-fucking-cuse me? Are you seriously falling asleep while I'm talking? Last I checked this was _your_ kingdom that I got dragged into to help repair.

"Good idea," he says quietly. He pauses when he sees me looking at him. "What?"

"It's been a long few weeks for the both of us," I say. "Why don't you get some rest?"

"No, keep going," he says, shaking his head as I gather the pages and close the book. "I want to know about the barracks."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," I say. "You need to sleep. You're no good to anyone like this."

Robb sighs and allows me to push him gently under the furs. I blow out his candle and hurry to the shelf to put my book away. I don't need very long to change into my nightgown. I roll into bed beside him in minutes, shaking my hair loose. By that point, he's asleep. I take a look at him—really _look_ this time. He's about twenty three. But there's something in his face—some strange ghost of dust—that has settled into his skin that makes him look so much older when he's awake. It seems that it's not there when he's asleep. So that's it, then. Robb needs more sleep. I turn over to face my nightstand and blow out my candle, and at last the room is dark. In a few seconds, an arm snakes around my waist and Robb is pulling me closer against him, enveloping me in warmth and the faint scent of wood smoke. His lips brush against my scalp gently. I lay my hand atop his own and roll over so my face is buried in his neck. He just holds me closer. The nerves that I've had since I came into this castle have been centered around him and I know that. But right now, his warmth seems to be melting all of those fears and worries away, and despite myself, I smile. We've spent every night that we've been married touching each other, holding each other, being near each other, but this moment feels closer than any moment we've shared since our wedding night. There's so much more he's putting into this embrace than he's let on in the past three weeks. His breathing slows even more as he goes deeper and deeper under and his lips find my brow. He's just so lovey dovey tonight. I can't say I'm not enjoying the attention. I am. If this is what happens after the awkward phase has passed, then hell—marriage is the best damn thing that a girl could ask for.

"Talisa," he whispers.

Nope.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't get much sleep, but when Mira wakes me up at nine in the morning, I'm jumping out of bed and into my bath in a heartbeat. I don't want to linger in the bed where Robb is still asleep. I have to slowly uncoil myself from the snake like grip he had on me the entire night. I couldn't even move. And he's been smiling in his sleep all fucking night while he's been having his delusion about _her_.

I'm not petty and the love affairs of others don't typically interest me because my father is Walder Frey which means I've been through more stepmothers than most people can keep up with. But even I've heard about Talisa Maegyr. I've heard enough to know that my father almost missed out on claiming Robb as his son in law because of her. I know that she's some war nurse he met after striking the deal with Father. I know a few things—shady half-truths that I choose to ignore. But something I've learned in the course of last night? What it was he had with her—it was real. I don't know much about romance but I'm sure any girl could recognize the actions of a man in love. What they had was real. That's an absolute.

So I've got two options. I could drop the hint that he called me her name last night—which would keep him on his toes and ensure that it would never happen again—or I could hold my tongue—which would not stop him from accidentally slipping up again in the future but would definitely keep things from getting awkward. Last night we had a semi-normal married moment. I'm not talking about the disaster in bed. I'm talking about before, when we pored over my sketches. I talked and he listened and he was interested and shit. I thought we were getting somewhere. I don't want to bring it up and drag us back to square one. Dammit, we were fucking _talking_. Why ruin that and be stuck in the newlywed phase where we do nothing but fuck for seven hours straight? I just crawled out of that phase and it's a miracle my vagina hasn't fallen off or something.

Wait…can vaginas fall off?

Moving forward. I like progress. I like progress and I don't like the idea of being demoted from possibly friendly terms to midnight fuck buddy once again. So silence it is. Lucky me, he's leaving tomorrow. He'll be in Riverrun for maybe a month, maybe more. I forgot to ask him. But fuck me I can't wait for him to leave. I need time to gather my bearings and get to work.

So of course breakfast waits until later, but today I don't think I'm likely to get in a bite at all or else I'll just send it right back up. I go with Catelyn to the Council Chambers. There's an antechamber there where the planning for construction is going on. I look over the sketches already there. The architects have some good plans. Expensive ones, though. I take one look at the blueprints for the Great Sept and I can think of thirteen ways to build the same structure for cheaper. I have no fucking clue how much Robb is willing to part with on this whole thing, but I'm fairly sure he'd be eager to save as much gold as he can. I sit down at a table with Lord Bryndon, Lady Catelyn, Ser Calvin Umber and Stonemaster Edmund. There's an empty seat between myself and Catelyn. Ser Garret, the Steward of Winterfell, has yet to arrive. Whatever. I'm eager to get a move on and drown myself in work to sponge last night from my brain. They all start to talk. Lots of talking. Talk of money, talk of sickness, talk of all the renovations. It's annoying, all this talk. And it's not even anything new. It's stuff I already gathered for myself when I got here, stuff I figured out yesterday on the tour.

"The entire east wing has been sealed off," Ser Calvin says. "Once it's safe enough to enter, we can provide you with a full damage report. Here are the reports of the Maester's Tower and the Northern Watchtower. I'll go over them with you if Your Grace would like me to."

I take now as a good opportunity to pull out my own sketches, fishing through the pages until I've found my own sketch of the Maester's Tower.

"Quarry stone would serve as excellent lining for the inner walls," I say. "Two layer walls would be wiser. The extra support means we can stack the tower higher, which means more room for healing wards. Quarry stone is cheaper than ironwood, and almost twice as strong as Malaki ore."

The door opens and Ser Garret enters the room. Finally. I don't look at him, just keep my focus on the page in front of me.

"Your Grace," greets Stonemaster Edmund.

I pause, looking back. The familiar scent of wood smoke reaches me before my eyes reach him. Shit. Not Ser Garret. Robb. He sinks into the seat between me and Catelyn. Perfect. There goes my concentration.

"Sorry I'm late," he says to the group at large, making himself comfortable. "Apologies for interrupting, Madame," he adds, his hand brushing over mine briefly.

Asshole.

"No trouble," I say.

"This is an interesting surprise," says Lord Bryndon. "I've never seen you in the builder's chamber before."

"The queen and I spoke last night of her ideas for the reconstruction," Robb says. "I was interested."

"Israel was just telling us about her suggestions for the Maester's Tower," Catelyn says.

"Right, I remember," Robb says. "You mentioned…quarry stone?"

He has no fucking clue at all what he said last night. I don't know why, but I thought a part of him might remember it, or at least _try_ to remember it. But he doesn't. He knows as much about last night as a badger knows Old Valyrian. Not fucking much, apparently.

"I did," I say. "To brace the inner wall."

"This inner wall idea is a good one," says Ser Calvin. "Though it is, dare I say it, a rather expensive one."

"Not if we use quarry exclusively as inner lining," Stonemaster Edmund says. "Not just for this tower, but for all the others as well."

I duck out of the conversation. I'd probably be more inclined to pay attention, but Robb has taken it upon himself to play with my fingers absently and his touch makes it hard to focus. I am _not_ enjoying this morning. I was so excited for this meeting, a chance to show my ideas and actually get something done. Now I can't wait for it to be over.

The Maester's Tower dominates the meeting, and once it's over I'm out the door like a bat outta hell. I'd typically eat breakfast around now—it's nearly noon—but gone is my appetite. I was hoping to get a good look at the armory. It's the only place I haven't made a sketch of yet, and that's because I didn't get too good a look at it yesterday during the tour. I think hard on the numbers I'll be working with in the coming months. Four towers need looking into—two watchtowers, the Maester's tower, and the ceremonial signal tower. It's for show. It's been out of use since maybe two hundred years ago, when people started using beacons on castle gates instead. What the fuck is the purpose of a signal tower that no one uses? Why waste the money rebuilding something that no one gives a half a shit about? I can think of seven other uses for that space off the top of my head, including but not limited to a War Room, a chamber for the Hand of the King—speaking of which, who the fuck is the Hand around here?—maybe a cellar. I'm trying to remember the next thing, but I don't get that far before the scent of wood smoke finds me again.

Oh, come the _hell_ on.

He doesn't talk much—not to me, anyways. But he has a lot to say to Ser Lanagan. There's also the master at arms named Ser Holland and a whole bunch of other people that wouldn't be near me if Robb didn't insist on staying close. He doesn't leave my side once today. Not when I'm drawing out the armory, not when I'm looking out at the grounds, not even when I head down to the kitchen to tell the cook in person that I fucking hate parsley. Everywhere I turn, everywhere I go, the scent of wood smoke is somewhere near me. I'm so annoyed and unsettled by his presence. I can't fucking concentrate at all when the only thing I can hear is '_Talisa_' in my mind as his warmth enveloped me. And he's moving around like he's so suave and slick. He must appear that way to everyone else. I'm almost tempted to tell him a few times today all about his little faux pas last night, watch the smooth charming smile wipe right off his face and watch him cook up some excuse to run the hell away from me. But on the other hand, I'm not sure I want him to leave. Because if he leaves, then I'll be alone. I've been alone since I left the Twins, but Robb has been a constant through that. I can't really be sure what sort of constant I could call him, but it's definitely important for me to not be alone around here. In the days following Robb's proposal to me, people started acting strange. The same cooks and stable boys and guards who'd been laughing with me my entire life were suddenly tipping their heads, calling me 'my Queen' or 'Your Grace' and even my sisters were strange. Not a good strange. Hearing these total strangers say it to me might be slightly easier to get used to. Perhaps tomorrow I can get Mira and Julia to come along with me, but for now Robb will have to do.

Because he's finally gotten in a good night's rest, by the time we turn in for the night Robb doesn't look like he's going to drop dead before the hearth. In fact, I think he's trying to compensate for not denting the headboard last night because I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, looking over the report Ser Calvin gave me this morning when Robb's chin finds its place on my shoulder. Before I can even draw in a breath, his finger is tracing the skin on my shoulder, running through the locks of my hair, his breath tickling my neck.

"You sparkled in the sunlight today," he says softly.

Um…fucking no.

"Did I?"

"You did. Like a jewel. No one could stop looking at you."

Courtesy of shimmer dust. A delicacy from Pentos, purchased by the barrel yearly and sprinkled into my bath every morning and night. Robb lights another candle on the nightstand and runs his hand over my faintly glowing skin.

"Perhaps I'm a fairy in disguise," I say. "I've come to heal the land with my magic touch."

"Magic touch," Robb repeats, smiling at the thought.

I hold up the papers. This romantic shit has gone on long enough. Skip the foreplay, ginger snap. You're either going to fuck me or talk about this tower. Pick your poison.

"Have you seen this?" I ask, waving the damage report closer to his face to get his attention. "Most of the actual structure is still intact. The stone is usable, maybe for the inner lining, and the iron wood can be fitted for something else—"

"Shhhh," Robb presses his finger to my lips to silence me. "No more talk of work tonight."

"Well, I'd have brought it up earlier," I say. "But I didn't want to interrupt your conversation with Ser Lanagan. It seemed awfully important. What did he want, anyways? I thought he was working at the Dreadfort."

"It's nothing," Robb says, kissing at my shoulder. "Absolutely nothing."

So we're gonna fuck? Well, get on with it, then.

At the very least, there are no slip ups tonight. He calls me Israel and only that, but I still cringe every time a noise escapes him, half expecting her name to roll off of his tongue at some point but it never does. It's late—or early depending on your viewpoint—when we finally part for the night. I roll over, giving him my back, hugging the furs tightly around me. It's not long before his arm coils around me again. He kisses my cheek.

"What is troubling you?" he asks.

The sound of your fucking voice.

"The reconstruction," I say. "There's so much to be done…and with you leaving tomorrow…"

"You'll be in good hands," he assures me. "Ser Calvin and Stonemaster Edmund have been doing this sort of thing their whole lives."

So have I, dumbass. Last I checked, that was why you married me.

"What did Ser Lanagan want?" I ask again. "What brings him from the Dreadfort?"

"I told you," Robb says. "Absolutely nothing. Just a report on the state of the area, is all."

So Robb sleeps soundly tonight. I wish I could say that I do, too, but I don't. I'm kind of pinned in place by his arm again, and now that I know for certain Robb is a spooner and that this arm pinning is going to be a regular occurrence then I'm probably going to have to chop off his arms to be able to have the luxury of turning over once or twice a night. You don't get to cuddle the girl you accidentally called _Talisa _a little over twenty four hours ago.

While I'm pinned, I get a good look at us in the mirror. I look claustrophobic. But here, nestled in the arms of a king, I can't help but notice how much I really _do_ look like a queen. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am not conventionally beautiful. I do not have red or blonde hair that catches the sunlight, I do not have mile long legs or a slim, paper thin figure. I do not have very much of any single quality that one would typically attribute to beauty, but I'll tell you what I _do_ have: I'm shaped like a fucking hourglass. I'm not joking. My waist is eighteen and a half inches wide and I've got the breasts and hips to make mouths water and I know that because I've done it before, most recently to Robb. I've got long, gloriously wavy hair that is black as the night, but when you look in the sunlight you'll see the tints of electric blue that have dazzled so many people before. Reina pities my hair for being black, but Reina's curls are outright curls and they can get unruly at the slightest mistreatment. Aradel has told me more than once that she'd settle for black hair if it meant it would be like mine. Waves. Elegant, natural waves. I've got skin paler than the moon but not translucent. Of course the powder from Pentos has a hand in making my skin look the way it does, but that is one of many secrets I've learned long ago to keep to myself. I've got eyebrows. Oh, do I have eyebrows. They grow thick and bushy, and I have to cut the hairs short every month with small scissors but it pays off because the look works for me. I once almost allowed Aradel to pluck them for me but our Septa forbade it. I'm glad I listened because my eyebrows are distinctive and they look amazing—but only on me. I know this because Reina used a hair growth serum to try to grow her brows out like mine and the result was horrifying. So it's a matter of natural selection. Now these perfect thick brows of mine sit atop a pair of eyes that gently walk the line between a lively green and a pale stormy gray. My eyes are my saving grace. I have a pretty, plump pair of bold red lips that most—if not all—in the north do not have. I have a normal, pin straight dead center nose free of bumps on the bridge and not upturned in the slightest. I have a normal, oval shaped face. Every single detail about my face is normal, and if my eyes were anything other than what they were now, I'd be truly hideous. But by some stroke of luck that I owe entirely to my mother, I was spared by a pair of eyes hand-molded by the Gods and put onto my face. Sometimes Reina would tell me that I could make my sisters cower with that smolder of mine, but obviously around the Twins this is not the sort of asset you go flaunting. Too many lecherous oafs to be hiding from to dare invite anyone to molest you with that sort of flirtation. But I've practiced this smolder in the mirror sometimes, and these smoldering eyes can melt people from between brilliantly thick, long lashes and my eyes are just generally a force to be reckoned with. Put this all together, and I'm fucking beautiful. Perhaps I'm not Reina and perhaps I'm not Aradel, but to each their own, right? I've learned to be comfortable with it. Growing up believing that regardless of how pretty or ugly I was, I'd never leave, had given me this ability to embrace my look. Even now that I've found myself married and in full view of the Northern kingdoms, it's too late for me to go back to being physically insecure. And what's even better is that these unlikely qualities coming together to form this sort of beauty means that I'm the beauty that _no one saw coming_. I love being the unconventional beauty. It just kicks people in the ass in a way that satisfies me so much. And when you're trapped in the Twins with the likes of Aradel and Reina, one learns to itch where one can scratch. But today my eyes look tired. My skin is still shimmering subtly, but it's getting paler and paler with every day that I spend in the North. My hair's fine, though. I thought it might look like a rat's nest considering, but I've got good hair. It's loyal. It doesn't go where I don't want it to. Of course, I use four different kinds of oil treatments to keep it looking the way it does. Shampoo days are a pain straight up my ass. The truth is that all of my sisters and I have our own little secret weapons, like how Reina's hair _magically_ gets blonder and blonder every passing summer and how Aradel keeps her thighs firm and slim. I suspect our lemon and charcoal tooth bleach concoction might have something to do with Reina's hair and seaweed might have something to do with Aradel's legs. I already know that Bria uses mauve cherry resin doused in wine to give her hair its red vibrancy and I know that Jaclyn mixes almond oil with volte seeds to keep her figure. We've all got our secrets. Have I ever told anyone about the shimmer dust? No fucking way. Will I ever? Like fucking hell.

Mira wakes me gently, and Robb's still in the room, but he's awake this time and he's getting his cloak on. It's the one with the fur lining that holds onto his scent tightly. I hate this one. He's annoyingly chipper, refreshed with a spring in his step that is extremely out of place because it's like nine in the morning and everyone with a half a brain and actual _blood_ pumping through their veins would be dragging themselves out of bed. But not this golden boy. Nope. He's walking on air, and I can see that before I've even slipped into my bath.

"I'm off to breakfast," he calls from the parlor, his voice carefree and excited. "Or would you like me to wait for you?"

"No, you go ahead," I say, fighting the urge to fall asleep in the tub.

Don't do it, Israel. You will drown. Of that there is no doubt. Mira and Julia are still laying out your things for the day and they won't get in here fast enough to save you. You will drown and die. You will drown and die in a tub made of brass. Please, _please _do not drown and die in a tub made of brass. The Old Gods and the New Gods and not to mention the spirit of your dead mother might be so ashamed of you that they'll bring you back to life so you'll have to live with it forever. Or you'll have to float on through the afterlife explaining to all of the souls that you encounter how you died by falling asleep in a brass bathtub. There's nothing wrong with drowning. Just don't drown in a tub of brass. Please.

"Your Grace? The water is cooling off."

Gods bless you, Julia Mormont. I climb out of the tub and dry myself off. They're waiting for me in the closet. Mira's laid out a dark blue gown for today. Like all of my gowns, this one has no sleeves. I haven't ever needed to use sleeves on any of my gowns. It was never cold enough at the Twins for sleeves to be necessary, and when it _was_ cold enough I never really left the residence. So the fabrics of my gowns are not exactly durable. They're hardly appropriate for a place like Winterfell. But I wanted to hold onto something that reminded me of home. I had cloaks made in anticipation of unsavory weather, of course. Capes and cloaks and gloves of weak fabrics—things designed for fashion, not function. There are some furs in the works, but they'll need at least another week or two to get here. So to avoid dying of hypothermia, I'm going to have to keep my farewell to Robb brief.

Works for me.

So I head down to the courtyard a short while later. Robb is talking to Catelyn. He looks so damn alive. You know what's funny? Keeping Robb happy and well rested is sapping my energy. The more alive he looks, the more dead I look. It's like he's sucking my life force to feed his own. Like a parasite. What the hell? I narrow my eyes at them. She says something, he says something, he kisses her forehead. I hang back. Robb looks up past his mother, catches my eye, and holds out his hand. I walk forward and slip my hand into his. We walk onward toward his waiting horse. His party waits beyond, silent and still as morning air.

"Look after my mother," he says. "She doesn't do half as well on her own as you would believe."

"I will," I say. "You try to actually sleep through the night down there."

I'll definitely be sleeping better once he's gone.

"No promises," he says.

I kiss his cheek. "Be safe out there," I say.

"Be safe in here," he says back to me.

"I don't feel safe unless you're nearby," I tell him.

"I won't be long," he says. "Promise."

Ugh. Please don't promise. Take all the time you need while I work to restore my unbalanced humors.

He kisses my hand and then I stand back as he mounts his horse. He calls something out to his men. I give him a faint wave, then turn around before he's even left the area.

"Well, I suppose it's back to work, then," I say.

"Where are you going?" asks Catelyn.

"My chambers," I say. "I'm working on a few more blueprints and I do need to review those damage reports."

Translation? I'm going back to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

To say I sleep well with Robb gone is an understatement. I can't ever remember having gotten a better night's sleep. Ever. Perhaps it takes a little while in the darkness to make a person realize what they can't live without. In my case, I learned just how valuable my peace of mind is, and it seems to have returned to me. Robb's absence has breathed new life into my lungs. The nervousness that I felt when I first arrived still lingers here, surrounding me, but because Robb is no longer in bed when I turn in for the night, I have a place of guaranteed peace and solitude. I don't have to pretend every moment of the day anymore. The moment I enter my chambers, I'm me again. Not Israel Stark, Queen in the North. Israel Frey, the girl who never would have left her room in the Twins if she had a choice in the matter.

So with a new little haven of peace and solitude, I have some space to think. I have to think of what needs to be done. Four towers are in need of my immediate attention. I write out my proposal in less than a half hour. All four of the ruined towers are to be totally dismantled. I don't care how intact they are. If they managed to take any damage at all—damage done by twenty men and a Greyjoy ward—then clearly they need to be rebuilt from the ground up. The dispensary is next. We need to have a proper estimate of how much ironwood we'll need for the entire reconstruction. I don't need long to guess at a number. I'm in my zone. This is it. This is where I thrive. This is where I have always been a queen.

Things come together quickly in the coming weeks. The courtyard is paved with eulid stone, pressed down daily until all the stones are even. I walk around this damn castle in shoes that aren't always made for functionality so much as fashion. No way am I going to discomfort myself by walking over an uneven stone surface so that some ungrateful little shit descendant can prance over these things in three hundred years without knowing that three centuries of people had to suffer so the stonework would be even. Now begins the heavy work.

I bring in stonemasons from the Glen. They were the ones I had insisted that Father hire out when we were building that Watchtower three years back, the one whose blueprints had landed me here in Winterfell. They don't come cheap, these blokes, but they know what the fuck they're doing and that makes them worth every penny. They arrive a week after I send for them, alert and sharp and ready to work. And I do put them to work.

Through all of this, I notice eyes. Eyes on me. Every moment when I am not in my chambers, there are eyes. I don't eat in peace. I don't walk in peace. I don't work in peace. The only peace that I find, it seems, is in the silence of my chambers. People are curious, and I suppose there's nothing wrong with that. And if it were just curious eyes then I sure as shit wouldn't care. But it's not just curious eyes that follow me. It's critical eyes. Everyone's got something to say, some little detail to point out. I'm more than capable of rebuilding this precious heap of rocks in the cold, but I'm ill prepared for the critics.

"The teenage queen has brought in stonemasons from the Glen," I hear one man say to another. I care to hear what they're saying, but not enough to try and recall who they are.

"Did she really? But what's wrong with Northern stonemasons?" asks his friend.

"Apparently, they're not good enough for the little Frey bird," replied the first. "And I've heard that they are hideously expensive, too."

"You'd think that the king would have been a bit more careful in selecting his bride."

"Well, she's a beauty. I suppose that's more than any of us could have hoped for, considering she's a Frey."

How often during the reconstruction do I have to suck in a breath and walk away from conversations like this? More times than one might think.

"She's placed a massive order of eulid stone," Stonemaster Edmund says to Lady Catelyn one morning in the planning room, holding the parchment out for her to see. I duck behind the wall and watch as Catelyn's eyes bulge at the numbers I've scribbled onto the page before she takes the paper in her hand and sits down.

"Eulid stone is strong," she says after a while.

"But it is expensive," Stonemaster Edmund says. "I was perfectly alright to use it as long as we would line the inner walls with quarry stone, but what could she possibly hope to do with all this eulid? My Lady—I don't think this girl is fit to be taking charge of such a massive project."

"Practice discretion, Stonemaster," Catelyn says. "This 'girl' you are speaking of is the Queen in the North."

Edmund sighs. "Forgive me, My Lady. I'm—I've forgotten myself. But I am concerned for the coffers. Can the crown afford to part with so much money?"

"I believe it is the duty of the Master of Coin to decide such matters," Catelyn says.

She seems confident and I'm almost grateful to hear her words, but that small flicker of warmth is blown out in a heartbeat when Stonemaster Edmund is gone from the room and Catelyn runs her hand through her hair, staring at the page in disbelief.

I knew I'd get it done cheap. But dammit, I have a plan. I have a plan for this entire fucking castle and the plan isn't cheap. It's easy to say you'll get it done easily when you're just walking around a planning room staring at other's people's sketches and blueprints because dammit, it always seems easy when it's just a drawing. But I finally got my hands on the schematics for this castle and when I first saw them I was grateful that Theon Greyjoy had sent the place up in smoke. Because if he hadn't, it's likely the whole thing would have collapsed eventually. The eulid stone is necessary. I need to yank out every single piece of wood holding this place up and replace it with eulid so it'll never be as risk of burning again. And to top it off, eulid works well with nymsy, which is an excellent insulator. A place like this needs insulators. It gets fucking cold here. It's a great idea in theory.

But eulid stone is not cheap. Neither are stonemasons from the Glen. I walk through the halls one day and I can feel the hot stares of every single person I walk past. It's enough to make me turn back around and hurry back to the security of my room, but after a little while, I begin to feel the stares through the walls, waking me from my sleep. They need Winterfell to be as strong as it once was. It's their home, their stronghold, their light at the end of the tunnel that is the War of the Five Kings. But they clearly don't see how badly I need this as well. I suppose their need for it to work only increases how badly_ I_ need it to work.

Soon, even my chambers are unbearable. Having people around me quickly evolves from a nuisance to a nightmare. I'm amazed at how fast it is. Soon, I can sense it everywhere. The eyes, the scowls, the quiet murmurs and disapproving glances and subtle shakes of the head. I tuck into bed, but I can't remember falling asleep, and I can't remember waking up. All I can think of are the faces of those disapprovers, the way they shake their heads, the frowns and the murmurs and the eyes—those eyes that carry everything except the smallest hint of loyalty. I look around over and over for a face that shows something even the smallest bit different. When I had first arrived, these faces held so much kindness, so much hope. But I suppose they were still excited at the prospect of having a queen at all. I guess it sort of made it seem realer, the idea of the North as a newly separated territory. Having a queen means you're a real boy kingdom now. But how suddenly these faces have changed. Soon I can't stand the sight of them. I stop letting Mira and Julia inside during the nighttime hours, choosing to prepare my evening bath on my own and dressing myself for bed. Every night, I can feel it. The stares that haunt me during the day have finally pierced the stone walls of my bedchamber. How ironic is it that when Robb is gone I can't seem to get any sleep in, either? That is when I pick up my candelabra and my Furrow bark and leave for the first time.

I head to the Godswood. No one is there, and with all the hot, anxious, frightened stares focused on the bedchambers they think I'm still sleeping in, I have a rare moment of peace. I light the Furrow and inhale every last wisp of smoke that rises from it. One could argue that smoking Furrow bark in the Godswood will probably get me a very nice seat in the deepest circle of the seventh hell. If the Gods didn't want mankind to inhale Furrow smoke, then they probably should have thought twice about creating Furrow trees in the first place. I smoke that whole thing in one go while I take in my surroundings.

No eyes here. No stares and no frowns and no shakes of the head and no murmurs. So if I want to cry, then here would probably be a good place to do it. And there's a lot to be crying about. I'm scared. I've got a damn good plan, but these people don't seem to agree with me. And if they call it off before it gets finished and proceed with plans of their own, then no one will ever know how good my plans are. I'll forever be remembered as that dumb teenage bitch who almost bankrupted the new kingdom. I need someone to believe in this plan. Lady Catelyn? She's holding onto her faith in me as best as she can, but the more pages she reads, the slacker her grip on that faith becomes. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn't say a word, but she's slipping off the wagon. Stonemaster Edmund? That treacherous dickrag was the first one to jump off the wagon. Ser Calvin? He's in neutral territory, which is another way of saying that he'll probably run for the hills if I have to start fighting for this thing. Ser Garret is the worst. I don't think I'd even finished talking about my plan when he had already pulled the pitcher of wine closer to himself and drained the entire thing.

Reina would have believed in me. So would Aradel. So would Bria and Marlow and Roslin and Jenna and Walda and Lucyan and Father. They would have believed in me. They know what I can do. They've seen me do it before. But they're not here. They're back home, tucked safely away in the Twins surrounded by each other and familiarity and family and Gods, I wish I could be back there with them. I wish I could be listening to Father prattle on about some milkmaid's bosoms and go on about how if he had his way with her then we could expect another sibling. I wish I could be watching Walda negotiate the terms of a cease fire between Reina and Aradel and then help her mediate the rights to the hair brush they had been fighting over. I wish I could be walking through the grounds with Roslin, watch her pick a buttercup from the ground and tuck it away in a lock of my hair. I don't belong here. I don't belong in Winterfell. I belong in the Twins, in a chamber with a drawing station and a mosaic tub from Pentos and a future of eternal spinsterhood. This—this criticism and this hatred and this judgment and this queenliness—this is the biggest clump of pigeon shit that the Gods have ever dumped onto me. I want to go home. I want to be back with my family. I want to be back where I know how things work. Dammit, I want to go back to being a _child_.

An eagle flies overhead. I watch it as it soars past the top of the half demolished Northern Watchtower. The structure for this watchtower is old, and people have lots of respect for things that are old. But people have equal respect for things that are strong, and the watchtower that I built back home is strong. And someday, it will be old. It will be both old _and_ strong. _I_ built that fucking tower. And so I decide that I am the best architect I've ever known. I am Israel Loxley fucking Frey. I built an impenetrable watchtower at age fourteen. I redesigned the entire courtyard for the South Tower at age fifteen. I designed a mosaic tub with _steps_ at age sixteen. I became the Queen in the North at age seventeen. Not a single soul in Winterfell—not a single one of those mouthbreathers with their judgey eyes and their empty heads that they like to shake at me or their stupid frowns—can say they've accomplished as much as I have by seventeen. I don't linger by the Godswood for long. I eventually have to head back up to my chambers and crawl into bed. The stares are back. I don't bother trying to hide from them now. They're going to linger here until the job is done. They're hot and full of accusations and second guesses and doubts but I won't budge.

"Israel Frey," I whisper to myself under the furs. "Israel Frey."

So I'm not trying to poke anyone here, but I think smoking Furrow in the Godswood is a great way to turn the tides in your favor. At least it seems to have worked that way for me. Or maybe the Gods simply see it fit to help me because they just want to prevent me from ever going near the Godswood again. Whatever their reason, they smile on me. In the next two weeks, the Glen stonemasons inform me that the northern watchtower is completed. The Maester's Tower is the next to be done, which is really funny because everyone had been convinced that it would take the longest. The temporary dispensary is finished only days afterwards, and you wouldn't be able to guess that it's a temporary just by looking at it. It's filled with the supplies in less than a day. I am worried that a storm will come rolling in—I haven't forgotten I'm in new territory, where the weather is far from mild—so I have the foundations for the edifice be buried deep into the ground. They attach every detail with rachni paste, which can come off easily with lavender oil but will hold fast against any other substance. It just snowballs from here. The dispensary is emptied before we can blink, and soon the whole thing is being taken apart and recut for the barracks. As for that stupid useless ceremonial signal tower that everyone seems so hell bent on keeping, I decide to go ahead and restore the thing, but I've got a few adjustments to be made. So fucking funny how they're willing to burn me at the stake for spending money on rebuilding parts of this castle they'll actually _need_, but they're perfectly happy to blow countless piles of gold on a tower that will literally just sit there collecting dust and bird shit. If I'm gonna pour money into that place, then—by the Gods I smoke Furrow before—that tower will be of fucking use to someone. It takes a while, but I finally decide to make the place an observatory. Glass is hard to come by, but with the Iron Islands now formally a part of the northern kingdoms, we've got plenty of ways to get it without having to go too far. Even better news? My mosaic tub and drawing station arrive one after the other. I have the Glen stonemasons assemble them in my room. I toss the brass tub into the river, then I think better of it and have it taken apart and melted down. The brass could be useful somewhere else.

Getting this stuff done quickly is ideal. I want people to see progress fast so they can hop onboard the Israel wagon. But getting it done fast means I need more men. So the stonemasons send for more workers from the Glen, which sort of worries me a little because nothing that comes out of the Glen is typically cheap. I'm half expecting protests, but they don't come. Stonemaster Edmund sits quietly watching as I tell Finn, the leader of the Glen stonemasons, all of the work that needs to be done before the end of the month. Ser Garret doesn't drink around me anymore. Lady Catelyn smiles. Getting work done well and done right and done to last costs money, but not as much as getting it done _fast_ will cost. I brace myself every morning for the judgment, but it seems that every time someone blinks, a new part of the castle is done and ready to be used. Everything is in better condition that it was before the sacking, and I know that without even having to hear testimonials from the people who lived through the Greyjoy Travesty. I walk through the halls in the morning and people smile at me, stand aside and bow to me, greet me kindly, compliment me. Some don't do much besides bow coldly and resume their business. Like Stonemaster Edmund and Ser Garret. People who were staking their pride on my failure, who had been the quickest to doubt me, are starting to look awfully fucking stupid now that I'm succeeding so brilliantly.

"She's done awfully well," I hear Maester Ormond say in the planning room. I duck behind the door frame and listen for the response.

"I suppose," says Ser Garret's voice.

"You suppose?" the maester repeats, astonished. "My _word_, Ser Garret—if this rapid progress doesn't impress you then you are a hard man to please indeed!"

"It's not that," says Ser Garret. "I just didn't expect Winterfell to still be standing at all. I imagined that it would look awfully different under her rule."

"How so?"

"Well…let's not forget that she is a _Frey _girl, in the end. I'm surprised the place doesn't look like the inside of a Braavosi brothel."

Haters to the left.

The observatory is done by the end of the month. The majority of the Glen stonemasons don't linger for very long after that. They have to go back home to visit their families and tend to their own lives for a short while before they have to come back and continue their work, and once they're gone there's space enough for everyone to step back, look around, and see for themselves that I know _exactly_ what the fuck I'm doing.

The barracks are more than halfway done. The restoration of the battlements are finally beginning—the icing on the cake. The furniture is being assembled—it shouldn't take too long. The only thing that is clearly going to take a while no matter how many resources we have at our disposal is the Sept. Normally, the Sept would be restored to its original state but seeing as Winterfell is the king's palace now it can't exactly go back to the way it was before. I've spent weeks designing the layout for the place. It's going to be fucking spectacular. Once the Glen stonemasons return, we start work on it immediately. But first, I have to get the plans through the council. Good thing I've got them eating their own shit anyways. They'll whine and bitch a little, but they'll have to cave eventually. I mean—look at how much I've gotten done in only two months.

It's a crisp, clear, sunny morning when Mira wakes me, and when I see that she and Julia are still in their own nightgowns and robes I know they're here early.

"What time is it?" I ask them. I haven't slept properly in weeks.

"Seven thirty, Your Grace," says Julia. "We're so sorry to wake you so early, but Lord Edmure Tully has just arrived in the courtyard. We wouldn't have woken you, but he's come in all the way from the border and he says it's urgent."

Fuck. This. World.

I haul my ass into the tub. I'm so tired and worn out that I almost forget to throw in a pinch of my shimmer dust. I silently thank the Gods that Mira and Julia are here to help me dress. I don't think I could have done it alone, as groggy as I am.

When I get down to the courtyard, Lord Edmure is talking to Lady Catelyn briskly. They both tip their heads when I arrive. I remember Lord Edmure well. He's a nice guy. He made me laugh a lot at my wedding, which sort of took the edge off that night. He even talked my Father out of parading the bed sheets around the Twins as proof of my purity. He smiles and gives my cheek a kiss. What did I tell you? Nice guy.

"Good morning, Your Grace. Don't you look fresh as a raindrop?" he greets me. "And the palace of the northern king has never shined brighter! The place looks wonderful!"

Translation? I look like a horse trampled me eighteen times, shat on me and then bared its teeth with a wide eyed, manic look before it sauntered away. If a vicious predatory animal were to see me lying on the ground, it probably wouldn't come too close. The part about the castle could be true, though.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Lord Edmure," I say. "I wasn't told I'd have the felicity of seeing you again so soon."

Get the fuck away from me and let me go back to sleep.

"Well, I wish I could be here on more pleasant business," he says. "But I'm afraid the matter simply cannot wait. Tell me—is the king nearby?"

"Robb has been in Riverrun these past two months," Lady Catelyn says. "He will return within the coming months, though. How desperate is the situation?"

"Terribly desperate," Edmure says. "If I may solicit a private audience with the queen during the course of the day? This matter needs addressing immediately."

"Of course," I say. "Ser Garret will see to your company."

"Ah, yes, about my company," Edmure gestures to the people near him. They all sink into deep bows when I glance at them. "They were also hoping to speak with the Crown. I have here Morrys Flyn, Ambrose Hart, Talisa Maegyr, Buxton Grimes…"

He keeps talking, but my eyes are on her. The girl.

No fucking way.

I sneak a glance up at the skies. "Oh, come on," I murmur under my breath.

And here I was thinking this queen thing might actually be looking up.


	5. Chapter 5

I've never actually been inside the council chambers before. I mean—sure, I've been in the planning room, but that's not the same. This is the actual chamber. During an actual _meeting_. It's different, okay? Catelyn sits opposite Lord Edmure, who is pulling out a pipe. Lord Bryndon is tired. He's slumped in his seat. Seven in the morning is early for anyone, but apparently I'm not the only person who didn't get in much sleep last night.

"Do you mind, Your Grace?" Lord Edmure asks, holding up the pipe.

"By all means," I say. Is it wrong to pray he's lighting Furrow bark? He's not. It's one of those pungent concoctions to keep him awake. "So what is the nature of this situation that requires our immediate attention?"

What is it that can't wait until maybe midday or tomorrow morning, maybe?

"It's the Bolton problem, Your Grace," Edmure says, leaning in closer.

"The…Bolton problem," I repeat, blinking profusely. "I see."

Um, no I don't see. What business of mine is the Bolton problem? And what Bolton problem are we all talking about here? The Dreadfort was overtaken months ago. Why, Ser Lanagan was just with Robb not too long ago, whispering in his ear…all…conspiratorially…and Robb…had insisted that it was nothing…wait—wasn't Ser Lanagan tasked with overseeing the Bolton issue?

Oh, come on. _How_ did Robb see fit to overlook this?

"Yes," Edmure nods. "Ser Lanagan has written me from the borderland. Apparently, he and a small hunting party located Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton's hiccup, but he evaded them."

"Yes…" I say, nodding slowly like I understand what the fuck is going on. "Just—refresh my memory. How long has Ser Lanagan been in charge of locating the Bolton boy?"

"As long as we've been trying to locate them, Your Grace."

Which would mean over a year now.

"And what seems to be the problem now?" I ask.

"Ser Lanagan and his men pursued Ramsay Snow through the woodland," Edmure says. "But he's out of our reach now. They lost him. A letter reached me at Ironrath a week ago informing me that Snow has crossed the borders and entered the Southern kingdoms."

"This is grave news," Lord Bryndon says. "We cannot cross over the border into Stannis' territory without sparking conflict."

"But we must capture the Bolton bastard," Ser Garret says. "He must stand trial in the North for his crimes against the Crown."

"What about Roose Bolton?" I ask. "How close did Ser Lanagan say he was to finding him?"

Edmure blinks at me. "Did the king not tell you?" he asks. "Roose Bolton was executed at the Dreadfort a week after your wedding."

"While we were en route to Winterfell, of course," I nod quickly. "I've completely forgotten. So back to Ramsay Snow. True, we _do_ need to arrest him. Also true, sending soldiers into the southern kingdoms will spark conflict that we're not interested in or ready for."

"I say we send them over the border after the bastard," says Ser Holland. "He won't have gone far. We get him quick, bring him back, and no one will ever know."

"Unwise," Lord Bryndon says. "If those men are captured by southern soldiers then we'll have a nasty situation to explain to Stannis Baratheon."

"Lord Bryndon is right," Catelyn says. "It'd be safer not to risk it."

"And lose the bastard completely?" Holland leans back in his seat. "Let the people know that all our enemies have to do is crawl over the border and they'll be safe from us?"

"Also an unwise decision," Catelyn says.

It doesn't take very long for me to notice that basically every single eye in the chamber is trained on me. Well, what the hell do you want _me_ to do? If the idiot king had the foresight to tell me what the hell was going on, I might have some sort of clue how to proceed. But my attention is currently being absorbed by my frustration towards the backwater gingersnap and the pretty girl with long, black hair who is currently settling into a chamber in the guest tower.

"How we navigate the situation must be carefully thought out," Catelyn says when it's clear I'm not going to talk. "This might require further thought. We'll convene again tomorrow to discuss our decision. For now, the queen has other equally pressing matters to attend to, I'm sure. We intend to begin construction on the Sept before the cold sets in."

"Right," Edmure nods.

I'm the first to leave the chambers. Catelyn has my arm laced through hers in a beat.

"My brother tells me she wants an audience with the crown," she says. "The girl. You needn't worry about her. I will speak with her."

"No," I say. "I'll do it."

Catelyn pauses and looks at me.

"Are you sure, Israel? You don't have to."

"I want to," I say.

I really don't want to.

"Alright, then," she says. "When would you like me there?"

"Perhaps…it would be best if I did it alone."

"Are you sure about this, dear? You are aware of the nature of her…history…with Robb?"

"I am. All the more reason to meet her alone. I don't want to frighten her."

I also don't want to _deal_ with her, but not because I'm angry. I'm not. But her presence here will without a doubt cause a _helluva_ lot of drama, which I'm not interested in. I'm up to my hips in worry, stressing without a break about the battlements and the Sept and the barracks and the people waiting for me to fuck up so they can rub my face into it and dammit, I can't _deal_ with this right now. The whole thing is just so…_inconvenient_. Talisa Maegyr is a bothersome fly that I'm too busy to swat. Better get her out of the way now, find out what she wants, and then get her on a carriage back to Ironrath. I'm not interested in dealing with any of this shit.

Catelyn seems to back off, but she hints throughout the day that she could take over if I'm even the slightest bit uncertain. I'm one hundred percent uncertain. That's an absolute. But I don't let her see that. I don't want her or anyone else getting the impression that I'm worried about the girl being here. It's late evening when I summon Talisa to the planning room. The planning room wasn't a random decision. It was a tactical one. She comes in, she sees the sketches and shit everywhere, she knows that I'm busy and she keeps it brief. I'm pretty sure she's more eager for this to be over than I am.

Mira leads her inside ten minutes later. "Talisa Maegyr, Your Grace," she says.

"Hello there," I say, smiling up at her, putting away the papers I'm pretending to be engrossed in. "Excuse the mess. I've been swamped since I got here. Take a seat, will you? Mira, bring us some wine."

Mira nods and closes the door.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Maegyr," I say to her.

"Thank you for meeting me so promptly," Talisa says. There's the strangest twinkle in her eyes. I can't put a finger on it. "I realize it's quite a busy time for you."

Pretty. Pretty face, pretty voice, pretty body, pretty girl. She looks to be a lot closer to Robb's age then I am. Shit.

"Not at all," I say, shuffling away the last of the pages. "I'm sorry you had to miss my husband. I understand you wished for an audience with him, but in his absence I'll have to do. So tell me, my dear lady," I take the seat opposite her as Mira arrives with two goblets and a pitcher of wine. I pour one out and hand it to Talisa. "What news from Ironrath?"

"Ironrath is doing well," she says. There it is again. That fucking twinkle. "As are the Lord and Lady Forrester."

"Oh, good. I'm so fond of Lady Forrester. So what business brings you to Winterfell?"

"Well, as you know, the majority of wounded northern soldiers have all been moved to Ironrath for treatment," she says. "And I am one of the head healers working there."

"Indeed." She's a _healer_, too? Well, Robb definitely knows how to pick 'em. I'd have fucked her myself if I swung that way. I don't know why I was uncertain about this. She's like…perfect and shit.

"We are doing the best we can to treat and discharge the soldiers quickly, but…we're running very low on medicine."

"Medicine," I nod. Her mouth moves funny when she talks. It's…adorable. That must have driven Robb fucking nuts. This is the girl that makes the boys whistle and dog howl. I know one when I see one. I grew up with Reina and Aradel.

"Medicine, Your Grace," she says. There she goes again with that fucking twinkle. "We've been able to harvest some of the things we need from here, but there are certain potions and brews that do not grow natively in Northern lands."

"I suppose the climate doesn't suit everyone," I say, smiling.

She gives me a tight one in return and continues. "Many of these medicines can only be found in the southern territory, and some of them have to be shipped in from Pentos or the Free Cities."

"In which case we'd have to outsource in order to treat our soldiers," I say.

"I would not ask, Your Grace," she says. "Truly, I would not—"

I shake my head. "Think nothing of it, you're simply doing your job. Tell me, Lady Maegyr, have you ever been to Pentos before?" I get to my feet and return to the table with the sketches, holding one up.

"I can't say that I have, Your Grace," she says.

"Neither have I. But I have friends there who might be willing to secure the materials we need and see them safely shipped over."

"That would be very much appreciated, Your Grace," she says.

"As for the southern grown medicines…I think the time has come to open up trading proposals with King Stannis."

"I understand that it's a huge imposition," she says. "I cannot thank you enough."

"Don't," I say, shaking my head. "Please. Is there anything else that the Crown can do for you?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "No, Your Grace. Nothing."

"Well, then—now that that's been settled—why don't you give me a list of the things you need and I'll get to work on procuring them?"

"Of course," Talisa comes towards me and accepts the quill and parchment from my hand, writing the list down speedily. She smells like honey. Fuck. She's practically flawless.

She sinks into a curtsy and leaves almost immediately afterwards, bidding me a hasty goodnight. I'm in such a good mood over how well I've handled this that I take a seat and pour myself another glass of wine and sit back, twiddling my thumbs happily. It's only when she's gone that I realize that twinkle in her eyes was actually accusation/possibly burning hatred. I can't imagine why she'd feel that way about me. I found her to be quite agreeable. One of the most agreeable people I've met since I got here.

I get it, I get it. I married her man. But it's not like I _asked_ for this. If anyone, it's Robb's fault. He's the one who agreed to exchange his freedom to choose a bride so he could secure the right to a bridge. I was chosen out of twenty one girls literally standing there in the main hall like he was picking a pumpkin at market. She'd have this same hateful glare in her eyes if it was Roslin he'd chosen. Or Reina. Or Aradel. It's nothing personal…wait…yeah, it is. Do I care? No fucking way. I've got enough shit on my plate as it is. No need to feel guilty for something I had no control over. When I go to bed tonight, I'm no more troubled than usual, and it takes the same four hours of tossing and turning for me to fall asleep that it has every night since the reconstruction started. Talisa Maegyr hates me? Hell, she's gonna have to get in line.

When I awaken the next morning, Catelyn is waiting for me in my parlor. She's got a plate of fruit on the table in front of the plush seat. I smile and sit down next to her.

"How did it go?" she asks me. "With the girl?"

"Rather well," I say. "They're running low on medicine is all. Some of it has to be brought in from abroad. And the south. Looks like we'll have to get in touch with Stannis to open up trade relations."

"So it would seem," Catelyn bites her lip. She's thinking.

I ignore this. "I can get the medicines from abroad, but I'll need help getting in touch with Stannis. And I had this idea…about the Bolton thing. While we're already getting in touch with Stannis for trade, why not formally request his permission to send Ser Lanagan and his men across the border to go after Ramsay Snow? Or at least for Stannis' own soldiers to be on the lookout for him?"

"Hm…" Catelyn seems upset now. "Israel, dear, you do not think that perhaps what Lady Talisa wanted is not something she could have put in a simple letter?"

"Well, I suppose she could have, but what does it matter? It's done with."

"Yes, but…she did not know that Robb was in Riverrun," Catelyn says. "If he had been here…then she'd have been speaking with him last night, not you."

And judging by the look on Catelyn's face, it would seem that she believes Robb and Talisa would have done a lot more than talk. It's only when I hear her say it that I realize she's right. Talisa had come here to talk to Robb. Or probably more. I mean—don't get me wrong. I still don't mind her. But that would have been embarrassing, and I've got enough people talking shit about me as it is. No need to add '_can't maintain her marriage_' to the list of reasons people are judging me.

"What should we do?" I ask.

"Well…is her business settled?" Catelyn asks.

"Yes," I say. "She's said everything she needs to."

"Then I suppose there's no reason why she shouldn't return to Ironrath," Catelyn says. "I'm sure the soldiers are in desperate need of her attention."

She gives me a pointed look as she says this. Seriously? Send her away? I'm not a jealous shrew. I don't care how long she stays here, but then reasoning kicks in. Robb will be here sometime in the next few months. _Sometime_. No one can be sure exactly when, and when he gets here, then he'll either be celebrating the reopening of the Great Keep or he'll be celebrating the reopening of Talisa Maegyr's legs. For all I care, they can fuck on the battlements and I wouldn't mind if I could hear her screaming from the Godswood. Truly. I don't give a single dusty shit. But I _do_ want to shut everyone up, and Catelyn has a point—I can't do that if anyone has any doubt that I am not _one hundred percent_ in control of every single aspect of Winterfell—including my marriage. And yeah, yeah, I know they were in love and they still are—that's an absolute—but that is in the past because I am his wife now. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I will not be made a fool of. Not by Robb Stark, not by Talisa Maegyr. I didn't get dragged all the way over here—into the heart of the new kingdom's turmoil—so that I could be made the laughingstock of the North.

"I'm sure they are," I say. "Perhaps it's time for her to return home."

"I'll see to it," Catelyn says. "Perhaps it would be wise if we kept her time here between ourselves. I'll be having a word with Lord Edmure about it as well."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. Sending her away is one thing, but pretending that she was never here? Come on. I'm not that low. Am I? How desperately do I want to make my marriage work? Not terribly. But if Robb learns that Talisa was here, then he'll be thinking about her. And while my marriage isn't one of my immediate concerns, I'm not fond of being called by her name again. If she didn't know he was in Riverrun, then that means they have no contact. Which means that he'll forget about her slowly. And if I bring her up, then I reset the process. So I either tell him and let him think about her—and possibly even go _after_ her if he's nuts—or I bury this visit and continue to maintain the image of a stable marriage. Well, Israel—how badly do you want to sleep through the night again? Don't let him cheapen you.

"I suppose you should," I say.

So yeah, I feel a little guilty about it. Remorse will get you nowhere, so I remedy this nagging feeling by picking up some more Furrow bark and heading out to the woods again. I stay away from the Godswood this time, because I believe in the seven hells and I know they let me off easy last time but I don't think they'd be just as lenient twice. I smoke the thing beside the stream. It's getting colder. From this far I can see Winterfell almost entirely. It looks so much better than it did when I first arrived, and if Catelyn is to be believed, then it looks better than it did before the Greyjoy Travesty. There's so much extra space, so many extra towers and rooms. It looks like a proper palace now. Fit for a king.

Excuse me, world. I'm Israel Loxley Frey, and I am here to dominate you.

A wolf howls in the distance. I cower behind the tree, dropping my Furrow bark into the stream.

So maybe not _totally_ ready. But still…getting there.


	6. Chapter 6

Construction on the Great Sept begins within the week. With Catelyn's help, a letter to Stannis Baratheon is written and sent off days later. I don't say Talisa's name aloud after my conversation with Lady Catelyn, and Lord Edmure never mentions her again. The next time I check, she's gone from Winterfell, and I know better than to bother with the details. I've probably made a new enemy of her now, and that should probably bother me, but I just don't give a fuck at this point. There's too much to be done, too much to worry about, too much to count and sketch and oversee. A log of ironwood got loose and rolled over one of my Glen stonemasons, okay? Trust me—I've got bigger problems.

I'm inclined to call this period the Era of Animals, because I get up close and personal with a lot of them. The first of them is a horse.

A whole load of wild horses is found wondering through the woods one morning. They're taken to get broken in, epic news for the keep, of course. Ser Holland presents me with one of them, this one that's pure white and extremely pretty and—unfortunately—just as wild. I name him Phillip, and then later discover that Phillip is a girl, but I stick with the name anyways because by the time I find out why I can't offer her up as a stud I'm too used to calling her Phil to change the name. I suppose I could call her Philippa, but by this point I'm already distracted with the _second_ animal intervention.

Among the wild horses, we find a baby direwolf, trying it's best to tag along on its tiny little newborn baby legs. I was half ready to toss that thing into the stream, but Lady Catelyn thought it might be a sign.

"Robb and his brothers found their wolves alone in the woods," she had said. "Helpless and small, just like this little one. It might be wiser to keep it."

So now I'm stuck with this little mutt in my bedroom. I confess—he's cute. But he's so loud and all he does is whine and bitch. Excuse me, you little fur ball? Your bowl of milk didn't get here fast enough? Well, why don't you try constructing barracks and I'll try lying around on my non-furry ass waiting for someone to feed me and we'll see how hard you whine and bitch then?

So the thing grows. It grows fast. It seems like every time that I look at him, he's gotten bigger. He's fun to have around as he gets bigger. Less of a nuisance and more of a cuddly buddy. He follows me around while I'm inspecting the construction. He's always close enough to be touching some part of my gown as I move through the palace. He grows on me. Like Phillip, he's still kind of wild. He growls at people who get too close no matter how well he knows them. It takes him a while to get used to strangers around me, which is why it's usually smarter to keep him in my bedchambers. Except he doesn't like being holed up in there because it makes him antsy. He tore up three layers of fur covers in frustration the first time and so we start to let him loose through the woods every day. I've tasked one of the stable boys—Lukas is his name—with taking him out to the woods every single day. Lukas is the only one that he actually listens to. The wolf's got a pure white underbelly, but his topcoat is as black as my hair. And the really freakish part is his eyes—they match mine. I'm not fucking about. Same shade of gray. Except on a direwolf, they look a lot more intimidating then they do on a teenage girl. He's like my own little demon, a reflection of me in the form of a vicious wild animal. And that's the story of how he came to be called Demon.

Now the thing I notice once the wolf's grown enough to walk on his own is how rarely I catch people staring at me. People seem to be engrossed in everything except my presence as I move past them, only pausing to bow and throw out the respectful 'Your Grace' before they turn away. At first I thought it was because of the progress we've made with the Great Sept—the dark blue and creamy beige floors have already been assembled—and I allowed myself to feel smug. But then after the wolf started to spend its days with Lukas, the stares returned. They were only gone when I had the fur coat of a direwolf touching my gown, following me along.

"It's the dog's eyes," Catelyn tells me when I mention it to her. "They seem to pierce right through your soul sometimes. It's a bit unnerving. I suppose his temperament doesn't help any."

True, true. The mutt's got a nasty disposition. He growls at stranger and friend alike. The only person whom he never greets with a nasty growl through bared teeth is—lucky, lucky—me. He doesn't hurt anyone, though—at least he hasn't _yet_. But he's fond of throwing his weight around, getting everyone thinking that he'll snap on them in a second. He seems to be frightening them into obedience in the way that I wish I could but unfortunately cannot. He really _is_ my demon. Funny how he morphs into a little housecat when we're alone in my chambers and he's curling up next to me. But I don't have much time to see the humor in it, because by that point animal intervention number three has come along.

The third animal intervention takes the form of a falcon that lands in a coop with a wounded wing, causing a stir among some poor farmer's chickens. This is the only creature that I actually choose to keep. Because this thing is beautiful. He's got the most amazing silver wings. His body is speckled pale brown. No, his eyes don't match mine. He drives Demon absolutely _mad_. You'll never see two animals so eager to kill each other. I take Phillip out for a ride one day, and Demon and Silver come along with me and I'm stuck negotiating the terms of a cease fire for the first time since I left the Twins—and Reina and Aradel—behind. I can't say I don't miss it, because I _do_. It reminds me of home, managing these three things. And Phillip just sits there watching them try to kill each other and I swear I can hear her laughing through those weird noises she makes.

So Silver's wing heals, but he decides to stay. He likes to perch himself on my windowsill and shit on Ser Garret's head, which of course made him my de facto favorite from the get-go. Now that my bedroom is no longer an escape from the miserable stares, I find solace in the woods trying to keep a direwolf and a falcon from murdering each other with a wild horse as my audience. Even among a bunch of misfit fucking animals I'm still stuck playing a diplomat. When will I ever be able to take a break from being the Queen?

So because Demon has such a profound effect on people's behavior at court, I've taken to bringing him along with me more often. He stops the stares, but he can't fight the undercurrent.

"Did you see the falcon?" asks Ser Garret one day. I have to duck behind a pillar. Demon is nowhere in sight today, gone to the woods with Lukas to run wild and sponge the thirst for destruction from his system. "I swear, if I have to wipe bird ship out of my hair one more time—"

"I didn't mind the king's wolf," Stonemaster Edmund says back to him. "But she hasn't the slightest clue how to control hers. Someone is going to be eaten alive one day."

"I can't wait until Robb gets back," Ser Garret says. "And stops this Frey girl before she turns Winterfell into an animal house."

And that is how I encounter animals number four and five. The only difference between them and the wolf, the horse and the falcon is that if we're ever under siege, I won't be using the wild ones as shields.

Demon is standing right over my face one chilly morning. Mira is a few feet behind him, tugging on his tail, trying to get him off of me so I can get up. I push his face away from me and climb off the bed, settling into my bath.

"It is early?" I ask.

"It is, your Grace," Julia replies. But they're both dressed. "We let you sleep in as long as we could."

"For what?" I ask. "What's happening?"

"It's the King," Mira says. "He's arrived early."

"Robb is here?" I ask, and the alarm in my voice makes it a lot louder than I intended.

Oh, come on. I was just getting used to things. Like not having to work up a sweat every night before failing to fall asleep. Does this mean I have to start waxing my legs again? Shit.

So waxing takes a while. By a while I mean an hour at least. By that point, I can see the horses in the distance from my window. Fucking perfect.

Robb rides in looking every bit as tragically handsome as he did the first time I saw him. I wasn't too eager then, either, if I recall correctly. With him back in Winterfell, the nerves have returned and my fingers feel icy and my stomach is churning anxiously all over again. Just when I was finally easing into things. Robb greets his mother, his great uncle, his men and friends. By the time he reaches me, I'm counting the stones on the courtyard floor waiting to get my ass back inside before I die of frostbite.

He takes my hand when he reaches me, kissing my gloved knuckle. "You look stunning, Madame," he says to me.

I smile. "Welcome home, Your Grace." I lean forward and kiss his cheek. Hurry this up, gingersnap. You can't get any action from an icicle, and an icicle is what you'll be sleeping with tonight if we don't get back inside.

Later in the darker hours of the night, Robb curls up beside me and falls asleep. He's missed me terribly and I'm amazed at how clearly he can say that without actually talking. Well—he used his mouth, anyways. I'm irritated. I had grown accustomed to having some brief moments of reprieve, of not being queen. But now that he's back those precious few moments are gone, taking any chance I had of peace with them. Now I can't spend my nights lying awake, unable to sleep, thinking of how to kill Ser Garret and Stonemaster Edmund and every other miserable sod that smiles to my face and glares behind my back because now I'm spending my nights lying awake, unable to sleep because Robb Stark has just climbed off of me before he sinks into a happy, peaceful slumber. Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? Is this what I'm in for? Oh, what _fun_. Someone point me towards the nearest cliff to throw myself from.


	7. Chapter 7

**How to Handle Your Rebel King Husband Who is Too Young to Conceivably Die of Natural Causes—Westeros Edition**

Written by Israel Loxley Frey

So your husband is a rebel king, is he? So he _won_, did he? Well, congratulations! Now that you've settled into your palace and this husband of yours has returned to your home, you've got a lot of responsibility. From attending orphanage openings to writing letters to foreign royalty to locating a tonic that can stop your stress-related premature hair-fall to waxing everything below your eyebrows, you're suddenly swamped with work and will not be able to find a single free minute to sit down, cradle your head in your hands and ask yourself '_what the fuck is going on here?_'. Yep. You've become the queen of a recently freed northern kingdom, and boy, isn't that exciting (insert sarcasm here)?

Now I could go on for _years_ about the duties as a monarch—the charity work, the orphans, the politics—but this is not about how to handle being a queen. This is about how to handle being the wife of a king. If you're looking for some way to feel better about yourself, for someone to hold you and whisper softly into your ear that you are perfect as you are, to make you feel better about yourself, then put this down and walk away as fast as you fucking can. If you want to know the answers to all the harder questions, however—what do I say to the scheming asshole steward who drinks as a response to my every word? How can I subtly feed critical, judgmental bitches to my wolf without guaranteeing myself a stint in the dungeons? Is there a tonic that can make my husband's sex drive drop below ground for three months straight?—these are the sorts of questions that you will find the answers to within these pages. So if you're looking for ways to deal with all of the above, then by all means, turn the page. A quick note however—just so we're clear. This is _not_ a self-help book. It's a survival guide.

**Smile **

I don't care if the world is burning and your first born son's stuffed dismembered head has been mounted on a pike by your bedroom window. Smile like your face has been frozen stiff and that smile had damn well better stay put. As the king's wife, you will have to deal with work weary stonemasons, disgruntled locals, a smoothly subtle mother-in-law and a husband who will be watching your every move _very_ carefully. You are not allowed to feel anything but effervescent joy. A tower has been demolished to be rebuilt from the ground up? Oh, _joy_! The king thinks that the color you chose for the marble floors of the great Sept is '_pretty_'? The marble floors that you spent _ages_ picking the colors for and coordinating for hoping to hear the words '_gorgeous_' or '_stunning_'? Oh, _joy_! Any situation where you are dealing with the ungrateful shits where things are going even _remotely_ well, that smile is glued to your face with pitch and sealed with plaster. How much you smile when people are watching should be inversely proportional to how much you frown when _no one_ is.

**Cry**

_Do not do it._ Not excessively, anyways, but enough for people to know their queen isn't a machine. I don't care if your soul is colder than the height of the Long Night. If an orphan sits on your lap and talks, then you shed a fucking tear. I don't care if they're singing about unicorns. Your eyes had better well up.

**Chew, Swallow, Digest**

People talk. People like to talk. They especially like to talk about people they hate, and boy, do they _hate_ Freys. Half the time, they'll hate you, and the other half they'll hate that they're _not_ you. Either way, there's a lot of hate going around and as careful as everyone is, someone is going to slip up occasionally and you're going to hear some rather unsavory things about being too young and inexperienced and having no clue what you're doing even though literally the _entire reconstruction process is nearly complete_ and eulid stone makes Winterfell literally _glow in the fucking sunset_. You're also going to hear annoying things like how you're pretty _for a Frey girl_ and how you're not a total failure _for a Frey girl_ and how you dress nicely _for a Frey girl_ and generally every other sort of surprised insult that ought to be taken as a compliment because people would not typically attribute such positive qualities to a _Frey girl_. There's only one way to deal with this sort of shit. Chew, swallow, digest. Just like bad meat, it'll pass through your system and you'll shit it out eventually, so just let it go. Starting a fight over a petty remark isn't going to help you any, and you can't afford to look catty when the whole kingdom is already searching for a reason to tell you that you can't do your fucking job. Chew, swallow, digest also works for the husband in question. Because Gods, does this guy like to rile you up.

**Nights**

When your husband is a king, it goes without saying that your nights are bad. When your husband is a young king, it goes without saying that your nights are terrible. When your husband is a young king with a record setting sex drive, it goes without saying that your nights are fucking catastrophic. Yeah, I'm sure any girl wouldn't mind climbing over this guy, but when the extent of your communication is skin and a fur lined bed, then it doesn't take long before you're praying for deliverance. It turns out that there is a flower whose seeds, when crushed, can be dropped into wine and actually stem the flow a little, which can buy you as many as two nights of peace a week. Unfortunately, he's still gonna snuggle up against you and stroke your hair and play with your hands and shit. Just close your eyes and pretend that you're asleep. Eventually he'll leave you alone. Keyword: _eventually_.

Bear in mind that you _do_ have to fuck him. Being his wife and all—it's sort of required. This little rule is specifically for those queens of the north whose husbands go all night, every night like fucking rabbits.

**Sleep**

You will not sleep. Ever. Maybe you might in the first few days before it all sets in and the job actually starts, but once it's begun then it's over. You'll be taking sleeping draughts every night so you can get some shuteye before the sun peeks over the horizon and your maid is waking you up. This is inevitable. Go ahead and say you can sleep through the apocalypse. Sure, sure, I get that you do. For now. But once you're queen in the north, the apocalypse will sleep through you. Whatever that means. I'm not entirely sure because you see, I haven't slept through the night in a few months now.

**Women**

So kings are kings in the end, right? This crown that they wear on their heads gives them this stupid idea that they can fuck anything with a pulse. If your husband is a choosier type of guy, then you are either very lucky of very unlucky. If you ask me, I'd personally rather have a husband that sleeps with every girl he makes eye contact with than a husband who will bed only me and then whisper the name of a lost love in his sleep. Because it happens, you see. It'll happen the first time, and you'll sit on it because it might seem like an accident and you can let it slide. But then he does it again. And _again_. And now that you're aware of what he's dreaming about—_who_ he's dreaming about—it's not exactly easy to pretend that you can sleep beside him at night. And once this door has been opened, you have to make a choice: speak up and keep him on his guard or hold your peace and continue to be called Talisa her name every night? The choice is yours, my apprentice queen.

**Secrets**

You will keep so fucking many. Whether it's about the lady love whose visit you covered up with the aid of your mother in law or the Kale flask you have hidden behind the loose stone in his study, there will be _so_ many secrets to be kept. You will keep so many secrets and tell so many lies that you will not keep them straight anymore. So—like a senile old crone—you will have to write them down to keep them straight. I'm not fucking kidding. You will do this.

**Comparisons Pt 1: Actions**

So everyone is going to be comparing you to your mother in law, your sisters in law, your cousins in law, any relative in law they can find. Why? Because the in laws are family, familiar, accepted as a part of the gang. You, however, are _not_. You are the outlander, the foreigner, the freak from another dimension who has arrived to eat their brains/rule the realm. They will never say anything to your face. They are far too subtle for that. They will, however, be observing you _very_ closely. And that can be manageable. It can be handled. What cannot be handled, however, is when the husband starts doing it, too. He's even _more_ subtle, so watch out. He won't appear to be observing you when you're looking over a blueprint, or signing off on a design, or delegating stonemasons. But he _will_. He will be watching you like a fucking hawk. Like a hawk with _really good eyesight_. Early morning? The sun's not up yet? My wife might be asleep? She might not be interested in being woken up? What a perfect time to shake her awake and go for a ride through the crisp, winter air! And then once you're out there, groggy, exhausted, rubbing your eyes and inhaling air so cold that it might _crystalize your lungs_, clearly looking like the fact that you're on a horse is enough, why the fuck not suggest we _race to the fucking tree line_?! And if you've been paying attention, then you'll have followed rule 1. You'll have smiled and done it, and by this point he's smiling, to and by the way he's laughing you know—you just _know_—that this is the sort of thing he used to do with _her_. People compare you to his family, and that can be handled. But he compares you to _her_, and it's going to be a long while before you know what to do about that.

**Comparisons Pt. 2: Suggestions**

You know what I mean. "I like your hair. You should wear it down."

Um, you're not the one who has to deal with wearing it down.

If, like me, your hair falls thick and heavy, then sometimes it's easier to pull it into a ponytail or braid it out of your face. If you know that lost lady love used to wear her similarly colored hair down, then you pin it up.

**Comparisons Pt 3: Subtlety**

So maybe these other comparisons worked. Maybe you started wearing your hair down to shut him up about how nice it is. So maybe you've made the ungodly morning ride through the lung freezing-air a daily thing. So maybe he's winning. But it's not enough for him. You know it's not, and you know that because if it were then he would not have purchased a bottle of honeysuckle fragrance oil for you. If your husband is sneaky, then he'll have even gone the extra mile and placed it in your perfume cupboard so that it's right there for you to drip into your bath and you don't even notice that you've picked up the wrong bottle until you've dripped it into your custom made bathtub imported from Pentos worth an entire year's allowance. But of course by then you've already dripped it into the water, so you're stuck smelling like honeysuckle the entire day. He's full of compliments over how good you smell, as if there's anything wrong with the perfumes you used before. You're sour about this, but you've noticed a change in him because of it, which leads us straight to Comparison rule part four.

**Comparisons Pt 4: Acceptance**

So you want to pin your hair up again and you want to sleep through the sunrise again and you want to stop smelling like a fucking flower. Okay. Except that husband of yours is awfully finicky. He likes you the way you are—'_the way you are_' here being the person that he's slowly turning you into—and he doesn't think you should change a thing. He still crawls into bed with that predatory look in his eyes and you still have to poison him two nights a week to get some peace of mind. But the comparisons seem to stop when you're like this, so it's always better to just suck it up and keep moving. Don't be petty.

**Love**

Love is an emotion that most of us know very little about. If, like me, your heart is really just a mass of Valyrian steel, then it's something that you know virtually _nothing_ about. But unfortunately, it's something that sort of matters in a marriage as I'm told. I'm also told that you tend to love your spouse over time. I suppose it'll come. Of course, I'm too early into the process myself to know much about handling it.

On the subject of love, you should be advised about the biggest challenge that your king in the north may present you with—the _display_ of love. Once you start to remind him more and more of his lost lady love, he starts to get more touchy feely with you. And once he feels like you're adjusted to this, he will start to get touchy feely with you _in_ _public_. He will place his hand on your ass in the hallway on his way to the council chamber. He will make out with you at the dinner table. He will stare at your cleavage and watch your hips as you walk and laugh at his drunk friends' dirty jokes in front of you and he will do these things in plain view of the entire palace and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him. And the people, being crude little mouth-breathers that they are, will find this amusing. He will follow you out of the great hall at night and you will hear the humorous laughs of everyone in there and he'll have his hands on your hips the entire way back to your room and you will want to poison him every night of the week, but because you are a _team player_ and you know that that is immature, you let him get away with it as long as things don't get too nasty. You'll say it once or twice. _Stop trying to dry hump me on the dinner table_. He will not fucking listen. You can try to just stay in the great hall after dinner until he is too tired to actually fuck you, but it _will not work_. He will come take you by the hand and lead you the fuck out of there. No one will mind, and again, you will hear it. _Frey Girl_. That's an absolute. '_Of course she's going to keep him up all night, the Frey girl_.' '_No, he's busy making babies with the Frey girl._' '_The Frey girl seems to have teased the Frey out in all of us. Let's go have a romp of our own, shall we?_'

And they'll all saunter off and come morning, they'll be crediting _you_ for instigating the world's largest orgy and the only person who won't be floating on clouds and rainbows and unicorns and smiles will be—guess who—_you_. This is where the line needs to be drawn. Yes, it is perfectly acceptable for your husband to want to rip your clothes off every time he looks at you. No, it is _not_ acceptable for him to actually _try_ or give the hint in front of people that he _might_. Or to have your ass tapped in public. Or to have your face sucked like plunger at the dinner table. Some would argue that it's embarrassing. I'm not shy about shit like this, but dammit, it isn't _proper_. The Frey girl is already hearing shitty preconceptions thanks to her father as it is. She doesn't need to add '_voyeurism_' to the list.

About the author:

Israel Frey was born and raised at the Twins. She currently lives in Winterfell with her husband Robb and two savage wolves, a wild he-she horse and a falcon that likes to shit on people that piss it off.


	8. Chapter 8

So I've taken to concentrating my sleeping draughts. I do this especially on nights when I've given Robb the seeds because those nights are the only ones when I have the entire night to actually sleep. I don't sleep any better than usual, but at the very least I get the promise of a good morning. A letter arrives for me from—guess who? Stannis Baratheon.

"Aunt Catelyn!" I call as I burst into her room. "Look at this, Stannis has sent his reply!"

"Has he really?" Catelyn sits up and holds the letter to the window. "He wants to meet to negotiate. He's sending his man Seaworth to represent him….The meeting will be in Riverrun."

I'm hardly listening to the details as she reads on. I've done something right. I've opened up trade relations with the South. I can't help but feel smug over how…_queenly_ I feel right now.

Victory, thy name is Israel Frey.

Ser Garret has little more than a tight smile as I hand Robb the letter in the council chambers this afternoon. Stonemaster Edmund seems to be a little more supportive. He's inching closer to the Israel wagon.

"How did you first get wind of the supply shortage in Ironrath?" Robb asks me.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. "Some…" shit why didn't I think that he would ask me this? "Representatives…" keep it going Israel. "Brought the matter…" lie convincingly or kiss your dignity goodbye. "To my attention."

"Very clever idea to suggest that Stannis' men keep a lookout for the Bolton bastard," Robb says as he reads through the letter. "It would appear we're in need of a delegation."

"I'd be happy to go in your name, Your Grace," Lord Bryndon says.

"I'm afraid I cannot part with you in the coming months, uncle," Robb says.

"I could do it," Edmure says. "I've been missing Riverrun anyways."

"I'll be needing you here as well, Uncle," Robb says. "And this negotiation could take a few weeks."

And then the bell goes off in my head. Whoever goes to Riverrun could be gone for _weeks_. Weeks away from Winterfell. Weeks away from reconstruction. Weeks away from early morning rides. Weeks away from having to poison/drug my husband. Weeks away from having to let my hair loose. Weeks away from bathing in honeysuckle. Weeks away from critical eyes and whispers of '_Frey girl_' behind my back. Weeks away where I can sleep through the night.

Oh, shit. That delegation has _got_ to be me.

I can't bring it up here at this table. Not right now. I need to catch Robb alone, off guard, where I can slip my hand into his breeches if push comes to shove. Hell, I'll even hold off on drugging him and just let him go wild for the next month without a break if it means I get to go to Riverrun. Please, please, please, please, _please_ let it be me.

People are eating their own shit now because the construction on the Sept is going so well. It's fucking beautiful and you can tell it's gonna be phenomenal even now that it's not finished yet. The dark blue and cream marble designs on the floor, the braced glass windows letting in lights in gorgeous shades of blue, the wall candelabras in that shade of blueberry that took me the better part of two months to track down—dammit this thing is going to be spectacular and every single person who looks at it now can clearly see that. Edmure and Lord Bryndon are trying to talk Catelyn into having a feast to celebrate the progress. She seems to think it's a good idea. And why the hell not? A raging party where everyone is blackout drunk and toasting the successful rebuilding of the Northern capitol? It'll remind me a bit of home, I guess—well, the raging blackout drunk part, anyways.

The days go by slowly. Very, very slowly. I know the newlywed phase is supposed to breeze you by, but of course because the Old Gods are still a bit cross with me for smoking Furrow bark in the Godswood, I've still got my punishment to live out. The days pass with this agonizingly sluggish pace. Robb suddenly needs twelve years to reach his climax. That might or might not have something to do with the fact that he's drinking poison twice a week to kill his libido. Of course I'm not going to be telling anyone that, nor am I in any way inclined to stop drugging him. I _need_ those two nights a week. They're the only thing stopping me from turning halfway into a hydra.

Phillip gives birth to a girl in the next week. I name her Philippa, and then discover that she is in fact a boy. Go ahead, Winterfell. Laugh at the queen that can't tell the difference between a stud and a girl. Add that to the list of reasons why I'm not fit to be queen. As if checking a foal for a dick is _ever_ going to be a relevant requirement for running a kingdom. Philippa is a piece of shit, by the way—thanks for asking. He's even worse than his mom. He likes to trot out on his skinny legs and try and tangle himself up in the action when Demon and Silver start to fight. His mom just watches him with this satisfied look on her face—though I can't really tell if she's satisfied or not from looking at her face (do I look like a fucking horse whisperer?).

"Well done," I say to her one day after I've successfully prevented Demon and Silver from killing each other yet again. "This is the legacy of the great Israel Loxley Frey. A psychotic wolf, a homicidal bird, an egocentric foal and the he-she horse."

These creatures have formed an entourage and they take to following me out whenever I'm outdoors. The armory needs a new wing? I'm there in heartbeat with my charcoal pencil and a sketchpad and my Mad Band of Misfits is always somewhere behind me. I didn't actually come up with the name. It was Ser Garret's idea. Of course, I don't ever call us that aloud or in front of him because I'm still pretending that I have no idea he said it at all.

"What in the Seven Hells is the story behind those animals?" he had asked Maester Ormond one afternoon. "They're at her heels every time she steps outside the castle."

"Companions," said Maester Ormond. "Everyone needs a companion."

"She's turning Winterfell into an animal house with that mad band of misfits."

And then there's Stonemaster Edmund. "I don't suppose the Frey girl would be interested in keeping some _human_ friends, would she?"

Maybe she _would_ if they weren't all a bunch of fucking hypocrites.

I run out of seeds to dope Robb with and have to ride out to get more. Like hell I'm ever gonna send anyone to do it for me and risk the entire Northern kingdom knowing that Israel Frey poisons her husband so she can keep her legs together for two nights a week. I have to go into the woods and I've said it before that this place is getting chilly, so of course any time that I spend outside is a moment I risk having my insides morph into a wine cooler.

I can't ride out on Phillip since she's still recovering from giving birth to that thing and unleashing it upon the world—apparently that can take its toll on you—so I'm riding on this black one. It's one of Robb's. I find it awfully ironic that I'm using one of his horses to procure the seeds that I'll use to make his dick limp as an old handkerchief tomorrow night. This new horse doesn't like me. When I say it doesn't like me, I mean that I think it might actually be trying very hard to kill me. Maybe it senses what I'm going to be doing to its master with the seeds I procure from this little journey. Ser Holland is riding with me because apparently I'm not allowed to go alone.

"Shadow seems to be growing fond of you," Ser Holland observes when the horse tries to '_accidentally_' trip over a fat root sticking out of the forest floor. Like fuck that was an accident. An accident is what happened when that log of ironwood wasn't braced tightly enough and rolled downhill over that Glen stonemason. An accident is my handful of crushed seeds '_slipping_' into Robb's wineglass at the dinner table two nights ago. This thing is waiting for the right opportunity to '_accidentally_' stumble so I can fly into the nearest tree and crack my fucking skull.

I've reached the little dip in the hills where the flowers grow, but with Ser Holland watching me, I'll have to be careful.

"Oh, look at those beautiful flowers!" I exclaim. "I didn't think there'd be anything blooming in this chilly air."

"They call them wolfblossoms," says Ser Holland. "They grow in defiance of the cold."

"Wolfblossoms?" what a stupid fucking name. "How charming! Perhaps Aunt Catelyn might like a bouquet."

I dismount Shadow carefully—I swear he tries to run again while I've still got one foot on him—and take my leather bag, filling it up with the flowers. They don't have a very nice color, these flowers. It's a dull greyish blue. I guess it's pretty in a sad sort of way. But their shape is nice. I gather a whole bunch and stuff them into the bottom of the bag and then tuck some more carefully at the top. I'll have to give Catelyn some of them, although I'd love nothing more than to keep them all in my mortar and pestle to use on her son. But appearances need to be kept up, and I'm fairly sure that anyone can learn the effect these flowers have on male potency just as easily as I did.

Shadow wants me dead, dead, dead in the ground, and I know this because Ser Holland has to hold him steady for me to mount him. Well, chocolate drop, I'm not enjoying this either. I've got my poison and now we're headed back to the castle and with any luck, you'll never have to see my face again. Gods. Robb Stark is a wonder of the world. Even his _horse_ is an asshole.

"I've heard talk of a celebratory feast in the coming week," Ser Holland says.

"I have as well. The Tully lords are trying to get the whole thing going. Will you be attending?"

"Perhaps," says Ser Holland. "It doesn't seem appropriate to be celebrating the completion of the reconstruction when the Sept is still yet to be finished, but I suppose we do need to celebrate the progress. No one would have imagined that we'd get it all done so quickly. You've done excellent work here, Your Grace. Winterfell is forever in your debt."

I smile at him. He's one of my favorite people here.

"It's been a pleasure working on this," I say. "I enjoyed every minute of it."

Technically, that's a bold faced lie because I think I only enjoyed maybe 2.6 percent of it—the time when I was sketching or supervising or smoking Furrow in the woods. Whenever I was alone.

"I hope that you'll be recruited to focus your expertise on the Riverrun gates next," Ser Holland says. "Though perhaps they'll have tasked a Riverlands architect for the job."

"What's wrong with the gates at Riverrun?" I ask.

"I don't think it was very much damage," Ser Holland says. "Perhaps a few small bits of broken stone from the breach."

"I see. I'd have thought they'd have patched that up by now," I say. "It's been so long since the last battle there."

"No, no, this was a bit later," Ser Holland says. "A last kiss goodbye from the hiccup Ramsay Snow."

Pause.

Ramsay Snow tried to sack Riverrun? Hold your fucking horses. When the hell did this happen?

"On his way out of the north?" I ask.

"Indeed. Just before he left for the border. Did the king not tell you what business had taken him to Riverrun so soon after your wedding?"

Nope. He was too busy exercising his overdriven libido. Because as luck would have it that's really the only thing I'm here for. To rebuild this castle and then go to bed and build another castle out of the bedsheets. Well, Israel—that's what happens when you marry an asshole.

Shadow tries to kill me two more times before we reach the castle. Clearly no one's told this horse that what he's doing could count as treason. But of course by this point, I'm already contemplating treason myself. I could mix a little something into his wine. It won't even be that hard—I mix the seeds into his wine regularly, slipping arsenic into his glass shouldn't be too difficult. But poison would be too obvious. There's a fifty percent chance that could get me caught and swiftly executed.

Maybe I could let him take a turn on Phillip once she's feeling well enough to ride on. As payback for letting me ride Shadow. I'm sure Phillip would want him dead just as much as I do—and I'm sure she's probably better at killing her riders than Shadow. What are the odds of Phillip succeeding where Shadow failed? Maybe the high thirties, low forties. Too early to tell—Phillip's never been ridden by anyone but me, so it'll be difficult to see how she reacts to strange riders.

"Israel," Robb takes my hand and kisses it when I walk into his study. I'm not here for him. I'm here for my emergency Kale flask under the loose floorboard beside his desk. But of course I'm not going to tell him that. "How was your ride?"

"Lovely," I say stiffly. "I found a patch of flowers in the woods."

"I hope Shadow wasn't too difficult," Robb says. "It was only after you left that I remembered he's not very good with strangers."

"It was fine," I say. "He was a treat. I can see why you're so fond of him." Like hell I'll ever be touching that horse with a ten foot pole. If that thing had its way, you'd be burying me right now.

"My mother's been convinced by my uncles," Robb says. "We'll be having a feast at the end of the week. To celebrate all the progress."

"Oh, how _grand_!" I smile. Well, that'll deal a blow to my homesickness. Robb smiles back at me. He's still holding my hand and he strokes it softly.

"You smell so sweet," he says. "You always smell so _sweet_."

My other perfume got more compliments than this one, you sneaky fucking backwater carrot-top.

"A new scent I'm playing around with," I say.

He holds me close and I can hear him breathing deeply. Yes. Do it now, Israel. While he's in a good mood. "You know, Robb, I was thinking just now…about the meeting with Stannis' envoy."

"Hm?" his voice is muffled in my hair.

"Well…I thought that…perhaps _I_ could go as the delegation."

Pause. He pulls back and looks at me, as if trying to gauge if I'm serious or not.

"You…go to Riverrun?" he asks. I nod. "But…why?"

Well, why the hell not?

"He asked to meet with a representative of the Crown, did he not?" I ask him. "Well…who better to represent a king than his queen?"

"It doesn't need to be you, Israel," Robb says. "There are plenty of other options to consider who would be more than happy to go."

"I know…but it's just that…I _want_ to. I _want_ to go meet the envoy."

Yes, I so desperately do. Please let me get the _fuck_ out of this castle.

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" Robb asks. "It's hardly a pleasant experience. Negotiations and meetings—it's all stupid and technical. You'll be bored to tears by it all."

Um—last I checked, I didn't have to marry _your_ pasty ass to be the queen of technicality, gingersnap. I was already a queen in that respect.

"I know what it's all about," I say. "It's just that…opening trade relations with the South—it's a big step for the kingdom. I want to be a part of it."

"You already _are_. You've done _more_ than enough. You were the one who first wrote to Stannis and broached the possibility."

"And now I just want a chance to finish what I started," I say.

Robb sighs. A knock on the door interrupts us.

"Come in," Robb says. I make to pull away, but he's still got his grip around me, holding me close. The door opens and Luthor the page boy comes in, a wooden box in his hands.

"Your Grace," he sinks into a bow. "My Queen."

My eyes are on him as he empties the contents of the box—dozens of letters and scrolls—onto Robb's desk. Robb doesn't pay him any attention. His eyes are on me.

"I'd miss you if you left," Robb says to me. I can feel where his hand is going.

No way. Nu-uh. Don't do it. Not in front of this page boy. Not with the door hanging open so literally all thirteen of the people who've just walked past the doorway—I counted—can see us, giggle, and walk on. Don't do it, Robb. Your Mama raised you right. Don't put your hand down there in broad daylight in plain view of the entire hallway. Do not put your pasty pale ginger hand on my ass in front of literally everyone that I see on a regular basis. I think I might actually _die_ if you do. That's an absolute.

He does it. And he squeezes. And he kisses my neck. I can hear a chuckle as Lord Bryndon walks past the door. He waves at us both as he passes. The likelihood of my ever being able to look that man in the eye again is dropping into the low negatives. Robb doesn't even seem to notice. He places his hands on my waist and picks me up, sitting me down on his desk.

"I'd miss you terribly," he whispers.

Absolutely hell fucking no.

"Close the door behind you, Luthor," he adds.

Well at least you have the decency to see to _that_ first.

Twenty minutes later, I'm adjusting the straps of my dress.

Robb kisses my forehead. "I fear I'll never overcome how captivating you are," he says to me, pressing his forehead to mine. He holds my hand and I squeeze his fingers tightly.

"Consider it, Robb," I say. "The delegation. Consider _me_."

Robb's face tightens a little at my words. He's silent as he takes me in. Yes, you darling fool. Yes I _did_ just fuck you to get myself onto your list of possibilities. Ever heard of a honey pot? I'll bet you have.

"Very well," he says. "I'll think about it."

I'm so happy I could grab him and lay one on him. And I do. He's definitely not complaining. He's too preoccupied moving the skirts of my dress without ripping the whole thing to shreds. So maybe it's not a guarantee, this promise to think it through. But it's more than I had twenty minutes ago. It's a promise to think about sleeping through the night again. It's a promise to think about being able to tie my hair up again and not bathing in honeysuckle. It's a promise to think about not having to walk through the halls hearing whispers of '_Frey girl_'. It's a promise—like the one we made when I married him. It's something that I'm willing to hope for. Like a lot of things. A promise is not a possible. It's a _probable_, and I can work with probable. I've found over the years that they tie in very nicely with absolutes.


	9. Chapter 9

With the approaching feast giving everyone something to look forward to, I could be forgiven for believing that Winterfell would be too chipper to hate on its mistress. But as it turns out, the Gods are still angry about the whole Furrow bark thing. In the next week, a massive storm rolls in and halts all construction of my beautiful Sept and the deluge continues for days without a single break.

Now typically I don't care much for storms, but people are starting to whisper that I brought it with me from the Twins. Unfortunately, whispering is as far as they can take their complaints about the weather because the storm only gets worse and worse every day, but guess which recently completed structure remains intact and completely untouched by any damage from the angry lightening and ungodly thunder and is so well insulated that not even a droplet of rain leaks through the ceilings? That's right, assholes: Winterfell.

This storm is bothersome to some, but every day that it goes on—every day that it only gets worse and worse—is just another day for me to prove just how well I've done rebuilding the whole damn shithole/palace. Because it's true. The ceilings do not leak. The howling wind is barely audible indoors. And it's so well insulated—nymsy, bitches—that the only cold that has any hope of getting in is what people let in on their own when they open the doors. From what I've gathered, storms in Winterfell used to be a bloody disaster. Well, I've just made them surmountable.

Fucking _woof_.

I'm grateful for this storm. It's gotten people to come around. Smiles come back, albeit slowly. People back at the Twins knew better than to second guess me and my expertise. Yes, you ungrateful little shits. I know what the fuck I'm doing. I may be young, but I'm smart. I'm as smart as they come. I'm smarter than a metal studded leather whip. And I'm the reason why your feast hasn't been cancelled and why you're not huddled up to keep warm and why you're not setting up buckets to catch leaking water.

So without any need to worry about the storm, everyone has taken a great and sudden interest in the feast. Catelyn has assumed total control of the preparations, so that leaves me to lie around fanning my ass in my bedroom. Robb doesn't linger in there. Storms don't merit royal vacations, thank the Gods for that. He's gotten me a gown to wear to the feast. I've got plenty of gowns of my own. I have so many gowns, in fact, that I have yet to be seen wearing anything twice. But Robb got it for me, so I suppose it'd be a gesture of goodwill. Which would sort of be rude to turn away. I may not be content with everything going on here, but dammit I have manners.

It's not until I actually see the gown that I'm contemplating committing treason again. It has sleeves. Nothing I own has sleeves. The sleeves are the first thing I see when Mira lays it out for me to try on, and I think that maybe it's because everyone wears sleeves in the North, and then I get a _really_ good look at it. It's a pale periwinkle blue. I've got pretty periwinkle blue gowns of my own made of silkier fabrics than this. There's something about this gown that feels…familiar. And then it occurs to me that this gown looks like something I might find Talisa wearing to a feast.

So now I'm in a bit of a pickle. I could listen to my deep gut instinct and toss this thing into the fireplace, then I could shove the ashes into a vial and wear the vial around my neck to the feast and then blow them in Robb's eyes while chanting a hell-hymn and keep my fingers crossed that it might be enough to blind him.

But I'm trying to avoid the dungeons here. So maybe I could try option number two. I could wear the stupid gown, let my hair loose and soak myself in the honeysuckle. And then I could let Robb live out his delusion for one bloody night to get his spirits high, and then use that to win him over on the whole delegation thing. And if getting that '_yes_' costs me just another small chunk of my dignity, then why not? Go big or go home, right? I've already made the honeysuckle and the hairstyle a staple, why not go all the way and wear the damn dress?

So as I try the thing on, I make myself a promise. The night of the feast is the night I'll jerk that '_yes_' out of Robb. I don't care how I do it. I don't care when that big '_yes_' comes. I don't care if it comes as I'm stuffing him with roast duck. I don't care if it comes when I'm refilling his wineglass for the thirteenth time. I don't care if it comes muffled through the pillow as I spank his pasty ass with a fucking boat paddle to get him hot and bothered the way that she used to (I truly fucking hope that's not how she did it). I am getting that '_yes_' out of him if it means I have to sell him on the sex market to a gang of silver backed apes. That's an absolute. And once I've decided that I'll get that '_yes_' during the feast, I promise myself that the night of the feast is the last night I'll let this delusion keep going. I have to start wearing my hair the way I always do. I have to start bathing in my juniper perfume again. I have to go back to being exactly who I was when I first arrived. I must remain the girl that Robb brought to Winterfell. If I let this go on, then it'll never stop. And Robb Stark isn't worth my dignity. My marriage, on the other hand, is worth maybe fifteen percent of it.

Demon finally decides the time is ripe to bite someone. His victim is a training dummy outside. I don't like letting him out in the rainstorm, but the other option is keeping him holed up in the castle with everyone else. Grey Wind keeps an eye on him, keeps him out of trouble. Robb thinks Demon is a gift to have in Winterfell. He's got to be the only person who feels that way. But I do confess that Demon has grown fond of Robb awfully quickly. It's not exactly easy to find people that Demon can get along with so well. Silver also grows attached to him easily. The only one of my Mad Band of Misfits who hasn't betrayed me is Phillip. She hates Robb, which is good to know if I should ever decide to employ her to assassinate him in the future. Philippa, being the backstabbing piece of shit that he is, worships Robb and follows him around sometimes when he's in the stable.

"I've never been so calm during a storm," says Septa Eleanor one day.

"Indeed," says Maester Ormond. "The queen is a master architect, indeed."

"Let's not be too quick to assign the title of 'master'," Ser Garret says. "We can't forget, after all, that the Sept is incomplete."

"But have you seen the progress?" asks Septa Eleanor. "It's so exquisite! She has such fine tastes."

"I suppose her tastes are rather commendable," says Ser Brixby. "When I first got wind of the king marrying a Frey girl, I expected to find this castle in a much different situation."

Maybe I'll let Ser Brixby have a ride on Phillip as well. Or maybe I could just give him my entire wolfblossom stash and hope it's enough to make his dick fall off.

But I mustn't get ahead of myself. I came to Winterfell with absolutely no clue what sort of people would be here waiting for me or what preconceptions they'd have. When I get Robb to say yes, I'll have those precious weeks in Riverrun to gather myself, steady my mind, recuperate from this nonsense. Oh, what a _bomb_ the Gods dropped on me, tossing me here. But if I get those few weeks, I can handle the rest.

So I know I said I'd wear the gown, but every time I look at it, I cringe. It goes on like this until I finally cave one night and have Mira and Julia summon my tailor for a few necessary alterations. I do not wear gowns with sleeves. I could do it for one night, but half sleeves is as far as I'm willing to go. I cannot concentrate on anything when I've got fabric touching my forearm, especially not fabric as thick as this. I understand that in the north, this sort of thing is accepted. I do not care in the slightest. The gowns I brought from the Twins were designed for me by Reina and Aradel and yes, the fabric is too flimsy and pretty for the North and yes the lack of sleeves is impractical in the cold but last time I checked, that's what cloaks were for. I don't care how women dress in the North. I'm not dressing as a Northerner. I'm dressing as Israel Frey. Israel Frey is only willing to give up her dignity for one more night, and by the Gods she smokes Furrow bark before, this gown's sleeves will be shortened.

So little details change every day that ease people into the mood for the upcoming festivity. Decorations stacked up in the corner waiting to be placed in the Great Hall. The arrival of a band of bards and minstrels. The scent of brewing ale, wine, cider, wafting through the air. The cheer is all around us. I've caught a bit of it also. It's going to be a splendid night. Successful all around.

The morning of the feast, Robb doesn't wake me. There's no way anyone can go for an early morning ride when it's raining so hard you could build an ark. These past few days have been opportunities for me to try (and fail) sleeping in. I hide under the furs completely, obscuring myself from view. As usual, Robb is disgruntled by this and keeps the furs pulled down to my chin as he holds me close. I really don't give a shit how Talisa used to sleep next to you, honey bunches. She liked the covers pulled down? Well she's definitely a brave soul but she will die young.

I've learned a lot about her from little situations like this. You can bet your ass that I know more about this girl than she knows herself, and I learned it all from little details like this, seemingly stupid, meaningless things that Robb does and little hints that he drops. Like how he _insists_ on having hazelnut soup served at dinner every night even though he _doesn't even eat it_. Or how he goes on quiet walks along the tree line every evening. Or the way he plays with my hands. Sometimes, when he looks at me, sees and remembers that I'm not her, his face just takes on this disappointed scowl, then the look melts away and he's distracting himself with my hair or my hand but I'm not a fucking moron. I've seen it. Sorry I'm not your dream girl, asshole, but you never seem to mind when you're keeping me up until sunrise.

Since Robb doesn't try to wake me for the ride, I get to hide under the sheets until Mira arrives to help me start the day. I'm excited for the feast. Really, really excited. But I'm especially excited for the opportunity the feast will bring me. Tonight is going to be a good night. I bathe and dress and pin my hair out of my face and go take a look at the Sept to check in on the progress.

It's fucking beautiful. I'm not kidding. I'm thinking that perhaps maybe possibly I'd be interested in renewing my vows with Robb soon just so I can say I was married in this Sept. The painters haven't finished their work yet, but it's all going perfectly. Septa Eleanor and Maester Ormond are right to call me a master. I'm a fucking prodigy. Today can't honestly get any better.

I hear the words '_Frey girl_' whispered two more times during the course of the day, but I don't care. Today is a good day. I'm getting the hell away from you, you ungrateful shit-eating scum-sucking ass-licking social-climbing pathetic hateful jealous inbred holier-than-thou maggot-tasting ball-scratching air-headed conniving twisted moronic cavemen. For how many weeks, you won't be able to keep me awake and when I come back, I'll be in a good enough mood to maybe decide not to feed you to my wolf.

Since people here are obviously not aware of the forty-sixty chance they have of becoming wolf food, I'm the one who has to duck away from their eyes and whispers. At around sundown, I head back to my room for another bath. This time, I empty out the bottle of honeysuckle oil into the tub. I'll never be using this thing again. After my bath, I brush my hair out and let it fall to my waist. After tonight, I'm pinning these fucking bangs out of my face. One more night. I put on the dress and I pinch some color into my cheeks and I get my ass to the Great Hall.

We feast in courses. Thick potato soup, glistening roast beef, delicate mashed potatoes, bread still hot from the ovens, mulled wine, and winter berry tarts. I'm careful to stay well and far away from the wine. I need to be sober to win Robb over tonight. His attention is seized by his comrades for most of the evening, but he smiles at me repeatedly. He's in good spirits.

"You look marvelous," he says. "Blue becomes you."

Yes, you donkey's asshole. Blue becomes me. So does tearing ass to Riverrun and getting the fuck away from you for a month and a half.

Once everyone is fed, the stronger wines are pulled out and the minstrels get dirty. They've been drinking like sponges since the feast started, singing light, happy tunes, but by the time everyone's polishing off their berry tarts these guys are so wine soaked their blood could power a windmill. I just sit back with a cup of water, watching everyone make asses of themselves in front of the entire kingdom. Ser Holland is gonna have to be cut off soon. His tolerance is a joke. He's standing on the table, singing a hymn at the top of his lungs and every time I look at him, some article of his clothing is disappearing. People are actually shoving coins in his breeches now and his pockets are so weighed down that it's a miracle his breeches haven't fallen to his ankles.

Ser Garret causes a stir later in the night. He's convinced he has seen some sort of supernatural figure in the shadow of the corner in the room.

"The lighting, perhaps?" I suggest to him.

"No, it had to have been a ghost," he says.

Right. That was my next guess.

"Well, I'm sure we've woken the dead with all this noise," I say.

"People are saying they can hear us from the villages," says Edmure as he arrives with a pitcher of wine. He fills our glasses and raises them high. "To Winterfell, the North, and our darling Queen. Long may she reign."

"Long may she reign," Ser Garret repeats as he drains his glass. I take a small sip. Sober, Israel. Stay sober.

"Long may she reign," Catelyn says, sinking into the seat beside us. "We'll be hard pressed to find a queen who can do a better job of healing this kingdom than she has."

"Speaking of healing," says Ser Brixby as he slides into the space beside me. "What is being done about the medicine shortage at Ironrath?"

"We're opening trade negotiations with Stannis," Catelyn tells him.

"I suppose it's high time," says Ser Brixby, draining his glass. "Has the king selected a delegation?"

"Not yet," Ser Garret says. "He's promised to do so in two days' time."

"Are you going on about that delegation?" asks Ser Calvin, leaning on Ser Brixby's chair. "I have reason to believe Robb might choose Lord Bryndon."

"The Hand of the King cannot preoccupy himself with something that any minor Ser may be tasked with," Ser Garret says. "He's got far more pressing concerns."

Robb is still drinking at the table, laughing himself hoarse at the sight of Ser Holland trying—and failing—to loosen his belt. Now's as good a time as any.

The little crowd I've gathered has elected to follow me to our table. Thankfully, they're all sidetracked with trying to stop Ser Holland from flashing everyone in the Great Hall. I slide into my seat beside Robb and kiss his cheek. He grins at me.

"I've been getting compliments all night on the state of the castle," he says. "You have a true gift."

I beam at him. "Anything for the king in the north. So tell me, how would I compare as a delegation to Stannis Baratheon?"

"Perhaps it's worth considering," he says.

Some people just like to get kissed before they get fucked. You want foreplay, gingersnap? Ask and you shall receive.

I stroke his hand. "The north needs to know that their queen has political prowess to match their king's."

"Oh, I'm no politician," Robb says, waving it off.

"Nonsense," I say. "Don't be modest, dear. You're a natural at this."

"I never would have had all this happen if I had a say in it," Robb says quietly.

Well, ginger, I never would have _married_ you if I had a say in it, but that's life for you.

"It's always the people who have leadership thrust upon them who excel at it," I say.

He looks almost like he's about to blush. Yes. Blush.

One: Up against the wall.

"My father used to say something like that," he says.

"Your father was right," I say. "All the greats know that it always the people who pursue power that end up doing so badly once they have secured it." He's thoughtful as he considers my words.

Two: Pull down the breeches.

"I grew up listening to stories about Ned Stark," I say. "How bravely he fought in Robert's Rebellion. And every night I'd go to bed thinking '_there's a man that people can follow_'. Well, the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree, does it?"

Three: Turn him around.

"When I first got wind of the North taking up arms against the inbred king, I prayed day and night for the Gods to give me a chance to take part in something so monumental." "

"Everyone wants to be a part of something important," Robb says.

Four: Finger the asshole.

"Indeed, darling," I say. "And opening trade negotiations with the Southern kingdom is what I like to call '_something important_', wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose I could," Robb says.

Five: Aim for penetration.

"I'd be honored to represent the Crown in Riverrun," I say.

Robb sighs. "I don't know, Talisa."

Catelyn heard that. Edmure heard that. Ser Garret and Calvin and Brixby heard that. Even Ser Holland—who is in the process of pulling off what remains of his clothing—has heard that.

Well _done_, Robb. Let it not be said that you half-assed your metamorphosis into a goat's ballsack.

Ser Garret bites back a laugh. Robb is frozen in time, as if trying to deny that it's just happened. Nope. Sorry. It happened. You just called me Talisa, except this time you're wide awake and stone cold sober and a whole gaggle of people we deal with on a regular basis has just heard it so there's no way we can pretend it didn't happen now.

It takes Ser Garret a minute and a half to decide he can't hold it in anymore. He bursts out laughing like a wild stallion and then he bows, stuttering out excuses to go be somewhere else and then he's disappeared into the crowd, laughing all the while. In the next minute, Edmure has decided to join the minstrels in singing about tits. Ser Calvin leads Lady Catelyn away for a dance, and Ser Brixby just busies himself with his wine. The cheer of the evening was killed in less than a minute with a single word. And I'm sitting here in this seat beside him with the proverbial dick in my hands that I'm clearly not going to get to shove into his ass. He was lubed and everything.

So…yeah. I think we've just reset the process.


	10. Chapter 10

Before you read (whoever's reading this) just a quick note:

I'm not one of those people who can just brush off things that people say about them or to them. I got some reviews from a guest that have sort of annoyed me. So before you read any further, let me just clarify one certain point. Whoever you are—two things—one: don't call me honey. I'm a grown ass writer, not a fucking seventh grader stealing your boyfriend. You don't have to talk down to me to get your point across. Two: this is _**fan**_fiction that I am writing **straight** out of my asshole. No _shit_ percentages and blueprints didn't exist back then. Neither did wedding bands. You ever notice how the use of modern concepts in a medieval world made _Shrek _cooler? I'm not going for realistic—I'm going for entertaining. So if you're—as you so graciously put it—'_upset and it's only page 1'_, then that's how you know that you should probably go looking for something more _realistic_. Sorry it doesn't come up to your high standards, but like I said—it's only _**fan**_fiction, and I'm only human.

I'm not one of those people who can pretend that I don't care when people say things that hurt me. Easily upset, slow to heal. So tread carefully to keep things from getting nasty.

For the rest of you reading this thing with an open mind, sorry you had to read that.

-.-

I don't give a single shit about the name. I certainly hope I made that clear by not really reacting to hearing him say it. Yes, I am peeved to no end that it had to come out. Yes, I am irritated that the entire marriage thing has been reset. Yes, it's annoying to have to start over. But I'll tell you what's _not _annoying? Robb doesn't touch me for two days _straight_. I'm not joking. He sleeps on the other side of the bed. I can't even smell the wood smoke in bed. It's fucking glorious. I could sing with glee.

Don't get me wrong. I saw Edmure in the hallway this morning and I had to duck out and take a shortcut to the planning room. No way in hell am I going to be able to look certain witnesses in the eye for a long, long, _long _time.

On the other hand, this awkwardness means that when we do eventually start talking to each other again, we won't be saying much besides '_lock the door_', '_someone could be watching_' and '_how do you untie this fucking corset_'. So we're going to go back to the whole seven/twelve hours a night schedule. I am not looking forward to that.

But then the gears in my head start to work. Robb's feeling awkward and sort of embarrassed and maybe a little guilty. So I could hope that he's feeling awkward and sort of embarrassed and maybe a little guilty enough to let me go off to Riverrun as an attempt to make amends or to give us both some time to recover. The only recovery I'm going to be needing is the recovery of my head and my sleeping pattern and maybe my vagina. My ego doesn't really hurt all that much. Not as much as he might think. I mean, what did I expect? I was there—dressed like her, _smelling_ like her. Of course it would have slipped out eventually.

So of course because all good things must come to an end, Robb's bodily silence is broken by the third night. I'm settling into bed, ready for another night of tossing and turning for four hours before I slip into a half slumber for maybe an hour or two before I awaken again and stay hidden under the covers until Mira or Julia comes and gets me to start a new day. But tonight Robb touches my shoulder delicately.

Oh, shit. Are we gonna start that phase already? Cause I was really hoping for another week maybe. Or maybe we could pick up on it when I get back from Riverrun. And no, just in case you were wondering—I'm not intending to write to you while I'm gone. I was sort of hoping to use the time to deny the existence of my marriage at all. Of course if you're antsy, then maybe I could have someone write you letters to keep you up to date on what's going on during the negotiations. But other than that…sorry, ginger. You won't be getting a peep out of me once I hightail it outta here.

His touch is soft, but he feels cold. Not physically. Emotionally. He feels like he's holding back, waiting for the rejection. Well, hell. I'm not gonna shake him off. That's rude as fuck. Plus I need some semblance of kindness to exist between us if I ever want to see Winterfell shrink in the distance as I ride off to the Riverlands.

I turn over and smile at him, holding out my hand. He takes the invitation to wrap his arm around me. So he just wants to spoon. Good. Not in the mood to take off my nightgown tonight. Bad news is it's not easy to toss and turn when he's got me like this. But whatever. The first awkward bridge has been melted. The rest will melt once I'm out of this place. Maybe I might have to write him a letter after all.

As I'm not tossing and turning during my non-slumber, I notice that Robb's steady breathing is absent beside me. So I'm not the only one in here lying wide awake. He doesn't move or say anything. He just stays awake, probably staring at the ceiling and it's weird. After a while, he seems to notice me watching him.

"Tell me, Israel," he says. "Have you ever been in love?"

Oh, _eat _something.

"Yes," I say.

Lie. Big, fat, bold faced lie through my teeth. I've never been in love, okay? I don't know what the fuck it does to people aside from what I've seen it do to Robb.

"With who?"

"A young man," I say. "The son of a strawberry farmer. He used to bring the fruit to the Twins by the cart every week. He always used to keep the biggest, sweetest ones in a separate bucket and save them especially for me."

Not a total lie. The fat, duck-footed old fuck who delivered strawberries to the Twins used to save me the best ones—granted I had to bribe him to do it.

"Did you ever tell him how you felt?"

"I came close once," I say.

"Why didn't you?" he asks.

"Because…" what the fuck sort of questions are these? Exactly what is he hoping to accomplish by this? "I suppose it would have made things complicated if I had," I say. "There is no way any lord or father would approve of such a match for his daughter—no matter how unlikely she is to ever wed anyone else."

"Do you ever think of him?" Robb asks.

Sure. I think of him all the time. I think of the way his belly would jiggle when he laughed and the way the hairs of his handlebar moustache would flutter when he breathed and how you could always count on him to vomit up his insides right by the bridge on his way over every single week. You don't forget someone so stupid and ridiculous that they eliminate the need to hire professional entertainment to keep you amused.

"Sometimes," I say. "I have not seen him in many years."

"Do you think he thinks of you?" Robb asks.

Well, maybe he thinks of the coins I put in his pocket every week in exchange for those big, juicy strawberries. With all the ale it's purchased him—and now that there's no one to pay him extra in exchange for the first pick—I'd say he thinks of me quite often.

"He and I are cut from the same cloth," I say at last. "Neither of us enjoy looking back. Eyes forward, all the time. It's the only way to carry through life."

Translation: Stop grilling me about the farmer and shut up so I can continue (failing) to fall asleep.

"I suppose it's efficient," Robb says. "Eyes forward. But what sort of person doesn't look back?"

The sort of person who doesn't fucking care.

"A person who believes that good fortune will come again," I say. "A person who understands that there is more than one way to live happily ever after."

And the award for Greatest Instance of Talking Out of Your Asshole goes to Israel Frey.

Robb doesn't say much after that, and I use this advantage to roll over and pretend to be asleep. After a while, he wraps his arm around my waist again, but this time he's asleep and I'm left to my nightly schedule again.

The next morning, I'm eager to get out of bed and to the council chambers. But Robb has gone for a ride with Lord Bryndon, which means the meeting will be delayed until later this evening. No matter. I've won. He's lucky—I didn't even need to probe his ass to get the job done. Now _that_ is efficient. And to think all I had to do to win him over was talk out of my ass for a few minutes about some lost love. I guess he just needed someone to make him feel less shitty about himself—relate to him by being a person in love trapped in an arranged marriage. Sorry, Red—I have no fucking clue how you feel. Not sorry, Red—I don't give two shits how you feel. But I'll pretend if it gets me out of here. If I had known before that Robb was this easy then I'd have done it _ages_ ago, made things simpler for the _both_ of us. Ah, who cares? Too late to turn back now. Better late than never, I always say (I never say that—do it on time or get the fuck out).

So I've decided not to poison Robb tonight. He's been through enough and I need to give him some promise of normality before I leave for Riverrun. So I leave his wineglass untouched at the dinner table tonight, and then after we're all fed, we gather in the council chamber.

Ser Holland has been walking around with a sack over his head for a while now. He's still mortified about the strip tease he gave us all at the feast. It doesn't help too much that Edmure tosses silver coins at him every time he sees him. People whistle at him in the halls and everything. It's almost bad enough to eclipse the whole Talisa thing. Almost. But of course those few witnesses aren't going to be saying much. They're all sort of awkward about it. Except Ser Garret. He still snorts back laughs when he sees me. It's got me thinking that maybe I can just penetrate _him_ instead. Or beat him to death with my proverbial dick.

Once we're all assembled, Robb pulls out a letter.

"This arrived yesterday," he says. "A set date and time for the negotiations has been fixed. Stannis' man Seaworth is on the move to Riverrun. Uncle Edmure, pack light—you'll need to move fast and return even faster. I need you here before the month is out."

"Of course, Your Grace," Edmure says.

Um…wait. What? Excuse me? Edmure Tully? I'm the one who's going to Riverrun, remember? You called me Talisa and now I'm leaving to spare us both the awkwardness?

I needed this time to pull myself together. I cannot physically handle losing any more sleep. I cannot emotionally handle dealing with these people. Riverrun was supposed to be my escape, my time to heal. Are you fucking kidding me? Was it seriously not enough for you to drag me here into the navel of the Northern kingdom's turmoil? Do you seriously have to go and steal my chance to calm my brain from this mess, too?

Of course it doesn't take too long for me to see the sense in Robb's decision. Or at least—to see _Robb's _version of the sense. He's never really struck me as the type to run away from his problems. So he'll maybe keep me here in Winterfell until we've smoothed this patch over because he seems to be under the impression that the Talisa thing is my only problem. Um, excuse me, asshole. It's not. Believe it or not, your little twinkle-eyed whore is the least of my problems. You specifically are not even _close_ to being in the negatives on my list of priorities.

Alright, gingersnap. If you're gonna keep me here, then you'd better have a fucking good reason. I didn't fuck you on a desk in the study so you could stab me in the back without an explanation. Unless you're doing that annoying thing where kings do whatever the fuck they want because they have this ridiculous idea that they can simply because they're kings.

Hang on a minute, you crusty ballsack. You left me here in this shithole for _months_ with your mom and your family and your judgmental friends and I didn't say a fucking _word_. I rebuilt this place for you. I dealt with these dickrags for you. I'm pretty sure you've never even heard of a person who can do all the shit I've done from the moment Ned Stark squirted you into Catelyn Tully twenty three years ago—the day the world turned inexplicably _black_.

The meeting takes other turns. The coffers are filling up rapidly. Some weapons shortage in the patrol areas by the Northern borders is being taken care of by a distant lord. I don't care to hear the rest. As soon as the meeting is over, I'm out the door and down the halls, heading straight for the bedchambers.

"Leave me," I say to Mira and Julia, who curtsey and close the door behind them as they exit.

I collapse onto the seat, pick up a pillow, and scream into it until my throat hurts and I'm all out of breath. I cannot handle sleeping another night on this pillow. If I don't go to Riverrun, my entire being will implode and Robb Stark is going to be the one to lick the mess clean. You ever been so sick of something that it makes your chest feel suddenly too heavy to carry? That weird twist at the top of your stomach that makes you inhale deeply to try and get rid of it? I've been feeling that way for months now. Without a break. That breathing _mistake_ had no right to go stripping me of my only opportunity to get rid of this horrible feeling. I need to go back to the Riverlands. I need to stop by the Twins and see Father and Reina and Bria and Aradel and Walda and Roslin and sponge the critical faces and whispers of '_Frey girl_' from my mind. I need to walk along the apple trees by the stone fence with my sketchbook in one hand and my wine flask in the other. I'm so frustrated my fucking brain is hurting. Robb Stark has undone me.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The door opens and Robb enters quietly, closing the door behind him. I could stick him with my letter opener. I could hit him in the face with the fire poker. I could probably push him out the window. I could. And I should. But because I have no proverbial balls to go with that proverbial dick, I just sit up and stare intensely at the letter I got from Septa Eleanor this morning, thanking me kindly for the extra clothing I sent to a band of orphans she's been tending to. If Robb has a brain in his head—and if by some miracle that brain is larger than a walnut—then he'll get the hint to leave me the fuck alone.

"I know that you wanted to attend the negotiations," Robb says.

So there's nothing in between those ears, then? Why am I not surprised?

"Hm," I just make the noise because it'd be rude to flat out ignore him. But I still keep my eyes glued to the page, hoping that he'll take the hint to keep this brief. I'm not in the mood, gingersnap. Say what you want then get the fuck out of my face before I gingersnap _you_.

"You understand why I had to choose him, Israel."

Um, no I fucking don't.

"Not really," I say. "But I'll pretend I do if it pleases Your Grace."

Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Inviting conversation right now is unwise. But how could I resist the chance to just spread a little frustration outward, away from me? Just _showing_ him that I'm upset seems to have eased my mind a bit.

"It's not that I don't think you can do it," Robb says. "You've proven yourself to be more than capable. It's just that…with everything out there—the Boltons still at large—there's an unnecessary risk you'd be exposed to. The war may be over, but some people out there are still fighting."

Did you seriously just talk to me about the Bolton problem?

"Are we discussing them now?" I ask. Screw ignoring. Square the fuck up, you ginger genetic whoopsie. "So they're no longer taboo? You didn't seem so keen on mentioning them to me when they almost sacked Riverrun."

"I didn't see the need to tell you and worry you about a problem that had already been resolved," Robb says. He reaches forward to take my hand, but I jerk it back. No way, you cheeky shit. You don't get to touch me after all the shit you've done.

"Hunting Ramsay Snow across the border is something that is going to be negotiated," I say. "I'd hardly call that a '_resolved_' problem. You're keeping secrets, Robb, and that would not matter to me if they were not truly important problems."

"Ramsay Snow is not a truly important problem," Robb says. "He's a minor fugitive and soon we'll have him. No need to magnify something insignificant."

"Edmure Tully arriving at sunrise seeking an immediate audience with the Crown is not what I'd call insignificant, Robb," I say. "I hadn't even been aware that the Boltons were a problem until he showed up in the entrance courtyard while you were away. What in the world gave you the impression that keeping me in the dark about this was a good idea?"

"I told you, there was no sense in worry—"

"Please," I stop him, dropping the letter at last. "Do _not_ say you didn't want to worry me. I've been handling far worse than the Boltons since I arrived here. I needed that trip to Riverrun. I am _sick_ with all sorts of misery and the Boltons are the least of my concerns, but I'd have appreciated being given some clue what was going on so I didn't look absolutely _dumbstruck_ when your uncle came to inform me that the boy had crossed the border."

"It didn't occur to me that you would be so desperate to know."

"Clearly, because we both know where _your_ thoughts have been since I arrived."

I leave that to simmer in the silence between us. He doesn't like hearing it, and I'm pissed off so I go the extra mile. Go big or go home, right?

"I have never been in love, Robb," I say to him. "I hated the fat old cat that brought strawberries to the Twins. There. I said it."

"Why didn't you just say that before?"

"Because you didn't want to _hear_ that. You wanted to believe that I might possibly be as miserable as you so you didn't have to feel so bad about yourself. You wanted someone to join your pity party, so I did. But clearly I didn't do it well enough."

"I don't want your pity," Robb says, his brow furrowing in irritation.

"Are you joking?" I ask. "You _live_ for my pity." Shit. Don't say that. "You _depend_ on it." Keep it together, Israel. "You _feed_ off of it. As if I _care_ about the girl or your little romance enough to actively make the effort to turn your head so your eyes are facing forward where they should have been in the first place."

"Clearly you care a lot more than you're letting on," Robb says. "Because if you didn't, then you wouldn't have patched up her visit here while I was gone."

How long has he known about that?

"So clearly I'm not the only one keeping secrets," he says.

"This was a secret that actually _needed_ to be kept," I say.

"Why? Sending her away was enough. You didn't have to behave as though she'd never been here."

"Why? Are you sorry you didn't get in a kiss goodbye?"

Shut up, Israel. You're not good at fights. You never have been. And this is turning sour _fast_. By Gods, why can't I shut up?

"I'm shocked you'd think I'm some sort of lecherous animal that would pounce on her at the first opportunity," Robb says. "Times have changed. We can be cordial to one another. What did you think would happen? We're grown adults."

"Well, clearly I have no way of knowing what you'd do," I say, rising to my feet to meet his eyes. Shit. Not tall enough. Crane your neck, honey. It's okay. "Since as I distinctly recall, I had to duck out of the corridor just yesterday morning to avoid running into Edmure, who was present at the very same feast where you—in the presence of no small crowd of people that we happen to interact with regularly—saw fit to call me Talisa."

Robb just stares at me for a moment. Not like he's been owned or silenced. I can see it on his face that I have not won this round. No. He looks rather like he's been stricken by some wonderful idea.

"Talisa," he says after a moment.

I raise a brow at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Talisa," he says again. "Talisa. Talisa. Talisa."

"Are you mad?"

"Talisa. Talisa. _Talisa_." He's throwing the name in my face like a fucking rock he's trying to break me with.

"How old are you, Robb?" I ask him, shoving him out of my way as I go to my vanity and pull loose my hairpins. "What do you want? Do you want me to cry? To turn into a shrieking shrew? The nagging wife?"

"I want you to _do something_!" he says at last, holding his arms out. "Something other than just stand there like an ice sculpture taking everything I throw at you! I buy you a bottle of honeysuckle and tell you I like it and suddenly you're using it every day! I buy you a dress that I know you'll _hate_ and you wear it to the feast! I tell you your hair looks nice one way and you keep it like that! What's wrong with you? Don't you ever get tired of just being an empty shell for people to fill up with whatever they want from you? Don't you ever _feel_ anything?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you gave me honeysuckle oil and that gown because you were testing me?"

"I am," he says. "Right after I learned that you sent her away. I gave you those things to see what you would do. I thought you'd throw them away, but I found you using them and I couldn't believe my bloody eyes. It was like watching someone give a pig farmer a bottle of red ink and call it wine, watching them lap it up. Don't you ever get tired of being a mannequin? Do you have any idea how many times I've tripped over the stick coming out of your ass?"

"So you chose Edmure Tully because you want to punish me for failing your little experiment?" I ask. I gesture to myself. I'm back in my own gowns now. I've been bathing in juniper since the feast.

"This is not about the Riverrun thing," he says. "I need to know that I haven't married a machine."

"You think I'm a machine?"

"I don't know what you are," he says. "All I know is that I could freeze _milk_ on your back."

"Is this because I wouldn't let you finger me under the table?" I ask. "So sorry I don't fancy the idea of being _molested_ in the Great Hall. I don't know what your wartime experience has done to your psyche, but I'm fairly sure that Aunt Catelyn taught you it's rude and improper to be sucking someone's face off over roast lamb and apple cider."

Robb looks to the ceiling. "A miracle!" he yells. "I'm getting a lesson in propriety from a _Frey girl_!"

Crash.

Stop.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

I did _not_ just hear the words '_Frey girl_' escape his lips. Hearing them from the hateful fucks outside of these chambers is one thing. Hearing it from Robb—the only person here that I could count on to be on _my_ side—has brought the insult a little closer to home. I stare at him. My mind is literally drawing a blank.

"I'm—I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head.

Robb's face seems to fall a little. Tell me you've seen that you just entered the point of no return. You do. But it's too late. Your sudden remorse doesn't comfort me. The words are out there between us and there's no taking them back now. My hands start to shake.

No, Israel. Do not cry. You've handled haters and pressure and fear and worry these past few months and you haven't cried once. Don't do it now. Crying right now would be the equivalent to drowning in a brass bathtub.

A tear trickles down my cheek. Shit. I can't fucking believe that I'm about to cry.

"Is that its own species?" I ask him. "_Frey girl_? Does that somehow devalue me as a human or something?"

Robb closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He reaches forward to wipe the tear from my face. I swat his hand away. I do not want to breathe the same _air_ as you right now, you dried up fuck-wad.

"I'm sorry—"

"I know what everyone around here says about my father," I say. "But I'll let you in on a little secret that I'm not sure many people seem to be aware of—House Frey existed _long_ before he did. And it will continue to exist _long_ after he is gone. Yes, I'm a Frey girl—people here say it like it's the _ugliest _thing in the world. You think I'm actually _enjoying_ this? You think I like having to worry about what everyone else needs—to be everything they want me to be, whenever they want me to be it? There's always someone to please, some perceived wrinkle to iron out. And _you_—you've drained me the most of all. What have I _been_ to you but the best wife I can be? What would you _have_ me be, then, if not your wife? Would you have me run naked through the halls and bend over for you every time you feel the urge to mount something? Would you have me smile at you and present my mouth for a romp in the council chambers? So it turns out that tending to an entire kingdom—rebuilding _your_ home and pleasing _your_ people and coping with this land of hateful glares and disappointed scowls—isn't enough for you? _No_, you want a wife that's _fun_ and _spontaneous_ and says exactly what she's thinking! Dammit, why can't _my_ wife be like that? Why can't she be the sort of girl who wouldn't mind waking up before the sunrise to go for a morning ride? You think I _failed_ your little experiment, Robb? I'm facing scrutiny on all ends, doubt every single which way I turn, and you see fit to _test my grit_? So sorry that I'm not the wife you wanted! So sorry I've disappointed you! So sorry that the girl you chose out of twenty one girls like an apple at the marketplace turned out to be such a rotten purchase! Yes, our marriage is not as exciting as a tryst in the woods. Of course that's _my_ fault! Of course _I'm_ the one to blame! How could it be anyone else's fault? It has to be _me_—I'm the _Frey girl_!"

So it turns out that I'm not any good at fighting, but outbursts might really be my thing. We just stand there, staring at each other. I notice immediately how quiet it is out in the hallway. I can't even imagine how many people are probably huddled up against the door, trying to make out what's being said. We probably roused the whole fucking castle. I don't care. I'm through—one hundred percent _through_—with this nonsense. That's an absolute. I reach for my cloak and lunge for the door.

"Enjoy your humanity, Robb," I say to him as I pull open the door. At least seventeen people straighten themselves up, stutter out apologies, and pretend to be doing something else.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"Perhaps I'm off to go howl at the moon," I say. "Whatever my breed of _Frey girl_ does when the sun goes down."

"Israel—"

I make a sound halfway between a tired sigh and an aggravated yell. It's not an attractive sound, nor is it an inviting one. I'm headed straight for the stable. Phillip is feeling better now, and even if she wasn't I'd have taken her anyways. Demon, Silver and Philippa follow us out of the stables and towards the tree line. The only real thought that can get through my head is that I am so fucking _done_.


	11. Chapter 11

Okay, quick note:

Guest—whoever you are—I've decided that in the spirit of light hearted, tongue-in-cheek humor, your argument—whatever it may be—is completely invalid. My story is what it is, and if you don't like it, then go read something else. Everyone who can _read_ knows that this is inaccurate. _I_ know that this is inaccurate. I'm not entirely sure what it is you were hoping to accomplish by getting me to admit that, but there it is and I hope it'll help you sleep better at night. Thanks for the reviews. They boosted my numbers.

Before you start to type up your next flame, consider this one last detail:

You made it to chapter ten to read my note. So clearly this thing must be pretty fucking interesting. And if you respond to this, then I myself and everyone whose bubble you've popped will know that you—in spite of yourself—have been unable to keep from reading it any more than you have been able to stop calling me 'honey'.

Again—to all others—I'm really sorry about that. This is the last time. Promise.

It's only when I stop at last in a clearing in the forest that I truly regret not having brought my Furrow bark along with me. I'd have thought to go back for it sooner, but the whole ride here my thoughts have been moving along the lines of '_ride your ass to the Twins pronto_' and they didn't really change much.

So from a realistic perspective, there's no way to get this whole stupid deal annulled because Robb's whacked out sex drive is a clear indication that our marriage has been consummated. I'd like to take option two—kill Robb in his sleep and just sit a happy widow—but unfortunately that would also not work because in addition to not having any Furrow bark I also have no balls.

But really. _Frey girl_? That fucking stung.

Maybe I'm cold. Maybe I'm a stiff. Do I care? Not particularly. Robb never asked for a wife that can make him smile and will wake him up by sucking him off under the covers. He just asked for a _wife_. Socialization and friendship are not required. Neither is any semblance of romance. Romance is not where I thrive. It's too murky and gray in there. Look at us. He's married to me but clearly still in love with Talisa Maegyr. How gray is that?

I, on the other hand, came in here with a clear understanding of what was expected of me. I've done everything that was asked of me and _then_ some. I've rebuilt this place. I've made it spectacular. I wear fur cloaks and ride through the freezing morning air. I sit through countless hours of incoherent babbling about treasuries and forges and villagers and watch problems be made worse because any problem can be made worse if enough meetings are held to discuss it and then I watch those problems become _magically_ solved in the blink of an eye without _any_ interference on my behalf _whatsoever_ and I _still_ attend those things even though everyone is doing fine without me so my attendance is _literally fucking pointless_.

I wore a dress with fucking _sleeves_. That shit takes fucking _dedication_. I can't believe that ginger asshole baited me like that. So he called me Talisa on purpose the first time? And the second? And the third? Un-fucking-believable. And then when he decided that wasn't working, he went and said it in front of everyone? How desperate is he?

Apparently, if he's willing to stoop low enough to try and remold me into her, then he must have been _truly _desperate. Which meant that I must have been fucking _cold_. Well, he never hinted during any of the time we've spent together that he might have been fucking an icicle. And if he _did_ hint it, then I very likely wouldn't have cared.

So…what then? He did it to jerk some sort of reaction out of me? To make me as convoluted and fucked up as he is? No thanks, ginger—I came into this mess nice and clean. I deal in absolutes, not shady grays or maybes or possibles.

So now I've got a bit of a situation. My husband hates me more than I first thought. Never a good position to be in. I'm stuck in this frozen hellhole with no definite allies. So what are my options? Not many. I could probably start with sleeping in a different chamber. No way in hell am I interested in sharing a bed with Robb now that I know exactly what he thinks of me. Then what? I didn't plan for this—any of it. Every time I try to think of something to do, I just hear his voice saying '_Frey girl_' and I start to cry. It's embarrassing, okay?

I've always known that my family is…colorful. I've seen some well and truly _fucked up_ things that have—no lie—sort of traumatized my childhood. Like the time I walked in on Father and the butcher's daughter in the stable. Or the time I walked in on Father and the florist's sister in the library. Or the time I walked in on Father and Master Bromley's wife in a sort of dominatrix situation. Yes, I see the fucking pattern.

I admit it—Father's maybe possibly sort of most likely the reason why people shudder at the idea of marrying any of us. But it's not like the _whole_ of House Frey—all these generations worth of history—can be judged based off on one man. _Not_ fair, Winterfell. I'm pretty sure there's a Stark or two in the history books _somewhere_ who liked to chase girls around the tower and pop out a bastard twice a year. Hell, I'm married to a rabbit and the only difference that I can spot between Robb Stark and Walder Frey is that Robb—at the very _least_—focuses his energy on one person.

So I can't really live in peace—not even for a moment. I know this when I can hear, in the distance, the faint sounds of galloping and the first calls of '_Queen Israel_'. Not so fast, you backstabbing shits. I am going to get my moment of silence if it means Winterfell has to burn to the ground—_again_.

Phillip rides off with me again, and this time we go on for maybe an hour before we stop at last. Philippa has had a difficult time keeping up, so he lies down by the stream to catch his breath. I guess now's as good a time as any to get off this horse. I sit down by a log and watch Phillip nudge her boy, urging him closer to the water to drink. It's funny, watching the two of them. Silver settles on my right and Demon on my left, and for once they're not trying to kill each other. They just watch Phillip tend to her boy.

I've always told people that I don't remember my mother. But I _do_ remember her. Not perfectly. I can't remember what she looked like very well. Every time I think about it, I just see her sort of blurry. I have a clue of what she looked like every time I find my reflection, though. They tell me I look like her—whoever knew her. Father doesn't talk much about her.

But I do remember other things. I remember that she smelled like juniper. I remember that she hated sleeves. I remember that she didn't like to eat parsley. Some things people tell me about her, some things I just guess at for myself. I put them all together and paint a picture of a woman that was probably just like me—_never_ meant to be married.

I don't know why I'm suddenly thinking about her. I don't usually. She's easy to shut away in some dark corner of my mind, easy to ignore in favor of other subjects. I only ever stop to consider her when I'm truly miserable. Am I right now? Miserable? Well, I've just been chased out of my bedchambers and I'm sitting on a log in the woods surrounded by the Mad Band of Misfits and my eyes won't stop burning. I'd say I'm miserable.

And what sucks is that right now I could really have used having a mother. No one ever loves you the way your mother does, as much as she does. I see the way that Catelyn looks at Robb and sometimes it gets me thinking. Will there ever be anyone who could look at me that way? Would there ever be anyone who could want to protect me that badly? Unfortunately not. All I've got is Father and Robb.

So since annulment is out of the question, what then? There is no honest way for me to go back to the Twins. I think Father might actually feed me to a pack of bears. Is that what a group of bears is called? Packs? Do bears travel in packs? Or is that just wolves? Is it a herd? It's not a flock, that much is true. Or _is_ it?

So confusing.

Moving forward. What other option do I have? All I really want is to skip off to some little dream world where no one glares at me or calls me '_Frey girl_' or hangs around fanning their asshole waiting for me to fuck up. I don't want much, really. Just to stop walking on eggshells. Walking on eggshells is not fun. They will always crack.

And you know what's funny? How even when I'm walking on eggshells, people are _still_ the same hateful fucking sneaks they've always been. Watching my step has literally not changed a thing. So…what then?

All this time everyone's hated my rotten Frey guts. I didn't have to fix Winterfell up and make it pretty and shiny and use stones that glow in the sunset to make this place palatial for their ungrateful hides. I could literally have just run wild, breaking everything and sending the North up in smoke.

I could have let Demon shit on Stonemaster Edmund's workstation like he's always wanted to. I could have had the Sept constructed from cheap wood and used cow shit to hold the whole thing together. It's more than these jackasses deserve. I've certainly done more than they ever could have imagined. I don't even need them to admit that. I just need them to leave me the fuck alone. But it turns out that here in the North, people think that anything coming out of House Frey is as good as shit. Even though the only exposure that most of them have ever had to House Frey is me—the '_anal icicle_' my husband seems to think that I am.

So I'm not the Queen in the North. So I'm not the Lady of Winterfell. So I'm never going to be more to these people than the '_Frey girl_'.

"Queen Israel! Come, captain! I've found the Queen!"

"The Queen is safe! Saddle the animals and get her a fresh horse!"

"I've found her, Your Grace! She's unharmed!"

Fun's over.

"Your Grace," says Edmure as he guides me back through the woods. Phillip is antsy. She doesn't like me riding on another horse no matter how tired she is. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. "I just needed some air."

"You ought not to go into the wood unescorted," he says. If he sees my tears, he's doing a good job of ignoring them. "Especially not this deep into the woods. All sorts of foul creatures lurk in the shadows."

None fouler than a _Frey girl_ apparently. Just ask your asshole king and his asshole subjects.

_Bing_.

Wait. A. Fucking. _Minute_.

My brain just hatched an idea.

So I'm a Frey girl. I know that means one thing. Winterfell thinks that means another. I've tried to show them _my_ definition. They don't like it. Maybe they'll like _theirs_ better. So this is the role I've been given? Fine. I'll play it. I know how to play this game.

Well, maybe I don't. But I can learn. Because I'm smart, you see. I'm as smart as they come. I may be the Queen in the North and I may be the _Frey girl_, but I'm still smarter than a metal studded leather whip.

Hello, Winterfell. I am Israel Loxley fucking Frey and I am here to dominate you. Or at least leave you wishing I would simply kill you.

Robb is silent when Edmure leads this new horse towards him. He studies my face. My nose is still red and my cheeks are still pink but I've still got nothing good to say to you, you backwater asshole. Fuck you _and_ the high horse you rode in on.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I smile at him. "I am now that you're here," I say sweetly. His brow furrows in confusion.

I am going to fuck this guy's _brains_ out through his ears tonight. If his dick hasn't fallen off yet, then it will by morning. You want to see a Frey girl, ginger? Well, you've _got _it.


	12. Chapter 12

Have you ever seen the face of a man who has been fucked until he physically _cannot _move? Well, now I can say that_ I_ definitely have. It's not an absolute, this face he makes. It's in the gray area, nestled carefully somewhere between dazed, confused, and completely horrified. And to think that all I had to do was sacrifice the ability to walk the next morning.

Seems like a fair trade.

I limp to the bathroom and settle into the tub. I need the warm water because I am sore _all over_. I think tiredness has finally etched itself into my bones, something I'll probably never be able to shake off or live without. But today, that's a good thing, because I kept Robb up until we could hear birds chirping. For once, the asshole was awake on _my_ terms.

"Wait—" he had said the moment I locked the door to our chambers last night and rounded on him. He was disarmed at how eagerly I pulled his clothes off.

"Wait for what? I'm not getting any younger," I had said back.

He stared at me, dumbfounded. "We—we should really talk. About…earlier. I want to apologi—"

"Oh, stop talking, will you?" I hushed him, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing on top of him.

I didn't really give him the opportunity to say anything more after that. In any case, there was no apology that he could have given me that I had any interest in hearing. I've got a new battle plan and dammit, I'm going to _stick_ to it.

Robb crawls into the bathroom after a few minutes and I swear he needs to lean on just about everything nearby to keep himself standing. His legs are wobbling like a newborn foal. I could have died laughing. I laugh so loudly that when Mira and Julia come in and see us—me in the tub and Robb trying not to hit the ground—they just stare at us with this mix of confusion and worry on their faces.

I pull them both aside and whisper my orders quickly, making sure they repeat everything back to me. I need this to all go perfectly so I can carry out my plan. No room for error.

Maybe it's because I'm in such a darling mood, but I manage to regain my ability to walk much quicker than he does. I saunter on over to the closet and pick out a dress for the day. Now I know which one I'm going to wear. It's the one I told the Old Gods and the New Gods and the spirit of my dead mother I would never in a million years be caught _dead_ wearing.

Before I came to Winterfell, I'd never left the Twins. But Aradel certainly has. She spent a year in the Reach a while back as a ladies' maid to one of the Tyrells, and when she returned she came with this one piece of work with a design that would make any girl's father want to turn a crossbow on himself and shoot.

"Lady Margaery wears nothing else!" Aradel had said excitedly, debuting her new favorite style.

I had—at the time—frowned at the plunging neckline, the backless bodice, the cut out waistline. The skirts, I had accepted, but the rest…just _no_. Too much skin, thank you very much. At a place like the Twins, too much skin is asking for it. But with me leaving for Winterfell, I could not refuse her when she made one for me as a wedding gift. It's the only way I have of remembering her, and that's the only reason I didn't toss it into the fireplace months ago.

I would never have worn it if the situation wasn't so dire. Who'd have thought that the harlot gown from Highgarden would one day be of use to me?

Here in this snake pit that is the Northern King's court, I've been given a role to play. And by the Gods I smoke Furrow before, I'm going to play it. So I pull on that bold green dress and I brush my hair out of my face and I pull on my cloak and I take my Furrow bark and I head out to play my part.

People do double takes when I walk down the halls. I have to force myself to look resolutely ahead. This is not a permanent situation. Keep walking. This is temporary.

How does anyone handle their back being exposed like this? Oh, right. It's warmer in the Reach, isn't it?

Keep walking. Just until you make the boy crack. Keep walking. Hammer him until he cracks.

And he _will_ crack. Make him rue the moment he called you _Frey girl_.

The council meeting is probably going to be soon, unless Robb is so physically spent that he can't even get his pretty ass to the council chambers. People are on guard right now. Everyone is whispering. Well, there's a _lot_ to be whispering about. Basically half of Winterfell heard our row last night and then a search party had to be sent out looking for me and now I'm storming the halls dressed like a southern whore. Use your imaginations, people.

I reach the chambers early. This is a good thing. I use the pincers to pick up some hot coals from the fire and drop them into the little rack in the side. Then I throw in the Furrow bark. All of it. I make sure to close the windows so none of the smoke gets away. Yes, Israel. You are hot-boxing the king's council chamber. Every single person who comes in for the meeting today is going to get higher than the stupid useless signal tower.

Lord Bryndon is the first one in. His eyes gloss over my gown, then he clears his throat, and then he coughs. Really hard.

"Is…is this…?" and then he pauses, because he's finally figured out exactly what it is, and he's not sure if this is the start of an elaborate practical joke or if the Queen in the North is seriously standing here dressed like a harlot hot-boxing the royal council chambers. Yes, you shit. Yes, I am.

Ser Garret comes in soon after with Ser Calvin at his heels. Ser Calvin is confused as well, but Ser Garret clearly has some experience with Furrow bark because he doesn't even seem to notice it's there until maybe ten minutes later. His eyes just suddenly bulge at this great and sudden realization, this great epiphany that has hit him with the force of a catapulted boulder. No—harder. An entire castle has just landed on his head. Yes, you fucking asshole. You've been so worried about the Frey girl? You worried about what she'll do to Winterfell?

Welcome to _hell_, you moronic mouth-breather. I am here at last to make all of your nightmares come alive.

Every single face that comes into the room is more stunned than the face before it, and I'm just getting more and more satisfied. I don't feel the slightest hint of shame—in truth—until Catelyn walks in.

Shit. I was kinda starting to like her. She's not gonna be too happy about this. And she's not. Her eyes travel all over the room. Edmure is high already. He doesn't react to it well. He just lays his head down onto the table. Ser Holland is really bad with mind teasing substances. He's giggling uncontrollably like a virgin seeing a naked girl for the first time—assuming that in this imagined scenario, he is twelve. Her eyes next fall on the burning Furrow bark in the coal rack, and finally they land on me. They take their dear sweet time studying me, these eyes. I don't make it immediately obvious that her gaze is making me start to sweat a little.

I can hear the silent questions. _Does Robb know that you've hot-boxed his council? What the fuck are you wearing? Do you have any idea how cold it is?_

Um…not sure if he _knows_…even _less_ sure if I _care_. I'm trying to make a point here, lady. _Extreme_ is kind of the idea.

After a while, the smoke is too thick for anyone to actually see anything, so Ser Garret and I are compelled to open the windows. When Robb comes in, the bark is—unfortunately—mostly burned up, but there's enough of the scent in the air that it's clear exactly what was going on in here.

I squeal excitedly and clap my hands when he takes his seat at the head of the table. His eyes travel up and down my figure, eying the dress. As soon as he's seated, I drop myself daintily onto his lap.

"Gods preserve us," Lord Bryndon says under his breath.

Well, Lord Bryndon, that Furrow bark has been burning for the better part of twenty minutes and you don't look the least bit addled so that's a clear indication of what _your_ teenage years were like.

Edmure isn't in any fit state to be talking—he's floating on that next level—and neither is Ser Holland—poor chap—so we're on to the next topic.

"I've received…news…from the—from the Dreadfort…earl…earlier," says Ser Calvin, holding the page close to his eyes to read it. "The Dreadfort…took…quite a bit…of…damage…during…Ser…Lanagan's sacking."

"Well…perhaps our queen could have a look at the damage reports," Lord Bryndon says. His voice is clean and crisp as mountain air. What did I tell you? This guy is a seasoned smoker. "To see what can be done. It's a Stark holding now—even if it _does_ still reek of Bolton."

All eyes fall on me. I stroke Robb's neck. Oh, how I'd _love _to stick a fork into your jugular. But I'll settle for whispering into your ear how I'm going to suck you off the second everyone leaves the room as I tangle my fingers in your curls and deliberately hold your face as close to my cleavage as humanly possible. And the best part is that Robb is just _done_. He looks like I've somehow sapped the life out of him. This couldn't have gone better if I'd written it like a fucking pantomime.

The meeting doesn't last very long. Almost everyone who wants to say anything has a Furrow tolerance below ground which shortens the whole thing down to maybe twenty minutes. You'd never see people so eager to leave a room. As soon as they're gone, I turn to Robb.

No, I am not going to suck him off. I just wanted to make the council really uncomfortable by whispering something in Robb's ear that would make his face turn red. Not sure what they think I said, but they can use their imagination, too.

"What was that?" he asks.

I blink innocently. "What was what?" I ask.

"That? Did you light Furrow bark in here?"

"I thought it would lighten the mood," I say. "Everyone is so tense."

"That might have had something to do with you," he says. "You can't light Furrow bark during a meeting. Or…rub up on me like that."

"Well, darling, I can't imagine why that would bother you," I say. "You never had a problem putting your hands on me in public before. I thought it might make things…_exciting_ for you."

He just stares at me. Like Lord Bryndon, Robb is also having a difficult time trying to figure out if I'm serious or not.

"Israel—"

"Aren't you _happy_ I got that stick out of my ass?" I ask him. He closes his eyes. Begging for patience. Trust me, honey bunches—_no one_ has been begging for patience harder than I have.

"Can we talk about that now?" he asks. "I never got to properly apologize."

"You did," I say. "And I forgive you."

About as much as I'd forgive a man who stabs my first born child in front of me for absolutely no reason and with no explanation given. It's gonna take a lot more than an apology to guarantee I won't kill you in your sleep.

A knock on the door interrupts us. I grab Robb and pull him close, smashing his mouth against mine as the door opens to reveal Catelyn. I pull back slightly, smiling at her.

"Auntie, come in. Just close the door behind you. This is a private show."

Her eyes go from me, to Robb, to me, to Robb again, then they roll to the sky and she just waves her hand.

"Your handmaid is looking for you," she says to me. "Something about a delivery."

"Oh, perfect!" I say, clapping my hands. "I'll have to go see to that. I've got such a _huge_ surprise for you tonight, husband!"

And I wrap my arms around his neck tightly, pausing to spank his ass on my way out the door. Catelyn watches me leave, and then her eyes turn to Robb. I don't really see anymore. By then I've turned the corner.

My delivery is waiting in the courtyard, but I have it taken around to the back. Live cargo must be handled with care. This is some very fragile merchandise. It doesn't take long for me to prepare it all, and I have it finished by dinnertime.

Robb is seated by his mother, and they're tucking into their roast duck heartily. Hurry up, gingersnap. Get in a bite or two now. I have no patience for this shit and it won't do me any good if you die of starvation before I have my way with you.

I have a very clear plan. Robb and all of Winterfell have this hideous idea of Frey girls in their mind. I only realized last night how merciful I've been. _Too _merciful. That little piglet wants to see a girl he could call Walder Frey's daughter? Fine, then. I will give him a display of such _sickening_ proportions that he will be begging for his old, anal icicle queen.

I wait until Robb's halfway through with his roast duck before I walk over to the table, collapse onto his lap, and kiss him furiously. He's stiff for a moment.

How do _you_ like it, asshole? Two can play this game.

"Let's go," I say, taking his hand and leading him away from the table. He inhales deeply. Trying again to be patient with me. "I want to show you my special surprise."

"Israel—" I silence him with another kiss, taking his other hand so I'm pulling them both.

Get up, you fucking carrot. I didn't put on this slut-suit and throw away the remainder of my dignity so you could chicken out on me before I've made my point.

Robb finally gets up to follow me, by which time the entire hall has seen me tugging him away like a dog on a leash. I lead him back to the council antechambers, where I've assembled the live cargo this afternoon.

"What's this?" he asks, looking around quietly.

"Your surprise!" I say, clapping my hands excitedly, gesturing to the room at large. "I didn't know which girls you like, so I just told the Madame to book them all."

"This…this is the council chamber," he says. "They can't be in here."

"Oh, don't worry," I say. "I sent five to Lord Bryndon and another four to your Uncle Edmure—"

"You _what_?"

"—and then I had two sent to Ser Garret and two for Ser Calvin. I only sent one to Ser Holland—he seems to have a weak handle on just about any sort of _real_ indulgence—but don't worry. I saved the best ones for you. Mind you, you're probably going to have to have Maester Ormond take at look at your cock in the morning to make sure whatever disease they're carrying hasn't made Little Robb fall off. Now come on—clothes _off_. Let's get that sword polished!"

The girls all giggle as they pounce on Robb. He disappears for a few seconds underneath them all, and then at last his head emerges from between two pairs of tits.

"What in the world is the meaning of this?" he asks.

I shrug. "I'm tired from last night," I say. "And a man as vigorous as Your Grace needs his entertainment."

"If people hear about all these girls being in here—"

"Not all of them," I say. "I sent the rest into the Great Hall."

Robb's eyes bulge out of their sockets. I didn't even know they could get that big. Everything he says is muffled by now—the girls have begun to devour him. I walk out of the room, closing the door behind him, and tread on down the halls.

Everywhere one looks, there are scantily clad women being chased or stroked. The hallways, the chambers, everywhere. On any normal occasion, no one in their right mind would have stood for this. But that's what macau beans are for. Good for….stimulation. Also makes a great stuffing, _especially_ in roast duck.

By midnight, Winterfell looks—as Ser Garret once dreaded—like the inside of a Braavosi brothel. I have to lock the door to our bedchamber before I swallow a huge goblet of wine laced with nightshade to help me sleep. This place is rapidly evolving into a madhouse and I have no interest in partaking in the festivities. I keep Mira and Julia in my room with me tonight. I have two guards stand outside the door. I need witnesses that I had no part in this clusterfuck. That's crucial.

Come morning, the entire fucking castle is battling raging hangovers. Stories are being told, theories being passed around on how all of the employees from the brothel mysteriously managed to find their way into the castle. People whisper about the night—no one louder than a quiet breeze of words—and guess who saunters on down in a respectable, sweet manner? Who is the only person in the palace who didn't participate in the blurry, sinful, shameful lecherous events of last night? Who is the only person in Winterfell who managed to hold onto her dignity? That's right, bitches. The fucking Queen. And a few select others.

Here's your _Frey girl_ you assholes.


	13. Chapter 13

Okay, everyone. This is it. This is the last chapter. I've been writing for seven days straight and I'm tired of it and I figured that I should quit while I'm ahead because I've reached the end of the story that I'm trying to tell. Short and sweet. End it before it starts to suck. '_Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain'_ or something like that. Like how samurais used to commit seppuku to preserve their honor.

Israel Frey has been a gift to write and I'm elated that everyone has enjoyed reading about her as much as I've enjoyed writing her. But all good things must come to an end, and it's time for me to move onto my next anti-heroine—Cinderella. No, your eyes do not deceive you. My next project is Cinderella. As most of you will have gathered by now, I like to write in a 'train-of-thought' style mixed with some good old fashioned 'tongue-in-cheek' humor and I use this method in (almost) all of my work. My next target is a Cinderella adaptation and I can't guarantee you that she'll be as sarcastic or funny as Israel, but Israel's more endearing personality traits will definitely bleed into the character. So if anyone's interested in reading about that, then stay close to me.

Absolutes—for me—has never been about romance or anything. I don't care much for the idea of Robb Stark as a prince charming any more than I care for Israel Frey as the girl that falls in love with him and enjoys sleeping with him. George R. R. Martin created characters that are flawed, human, not good or bad but somewhere in between. His world—this world he created for us—doesn't fit into absolutes. It fits into the shady half-truths, the gray areas, the maybes and the possibles and the in betweens. And sometimes, in the gray area, life just isn't as easy as falling in love with a guy just because he's handsome and polite. George knows that—and so does Israel.

Word spreads like wildfire. I'm serious. It's amazing. Most people don't really know when they're doing something that's going to make history, but I can feel it in the air I breathe as I walk through the halls of the palace. People whisper and the word spreads all over the place. Lord Bryndon gets word from Ironrath about the state of the supplies. Lord Edmure leaves for Riverrun. The Great Sept is barely a few days away from completion. The barracks are finished and the first members of the Kingsguard are appointed. But no one cares. The only thing anyone can talk about is the Banquet of Ducks, the night people shed light upon the dirtier implications of the motto of House Stark—_Winter is Coming_.

Mira and Julia are every bit as tight lipped about my involvement as I knew they'd be. The Madame had to be paid handsomely to lie to anyone who came asking. And oh, _did people ask_. They asked without a break, whispering amongst themselves and doing their own amateur sleuthing. But no one got too loud or too obvious—most people just like to deny the night ever happened. And so the _Night Winter Came_ passed slowly into legend—a dark and seedy myth.

Catelyn might possibly have figured out that I had a hand in the _Night Winter Came_. But she has elected not to say anything. Not to anyone else, anyways. But she has plenty to say to _me_.

"I understand that being married is…complex…in the beginning," she says. "I can't advise you on how to better the state of your own. Every marriage is different. But I can tell you that waging a war with your husband—and using _Winterfell_ as your battleground—is _most_ unwise."

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" I ask. "This is exactly what everyone has been thinking of me, anyways."

"No one has been—"

"Aunt Catelyn, please," I say. "I've heard the whispers. '_Frey girl'_. For months since I got here, I've heard nothing else. Now I've thrown them all in a situation that they seem to believe only a '_Frey girl_' would ever be caught in, but guess what? The _Frey girl_ was well and safe, tucked far away from them and their lecherous ways. Have you noticed that no one has been calling me that ever since? They've finally left me alone!"

It's true. They have. My little stunt with the prostitutes has cleared me of all preconceptions. But for some reason, I'm still having trouble sleeping at night.

Catelyn sighs. "I know it's frightening," she says. "Being here on your own. But you and Robb are _together_ in this. It'll take the _both_ of you to make this marriage work."

"Well, someone ought to have told _him_ that before he said his vows," I say. "Or perhaps before he decided to cut me out of everything going on beyond this castle. Or perhaps even before he decided to turn me into a little Talisa Maegyr ragdoll. Or maybe even before he called me '_Frey girl'_."

Catelyn closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

"That girl you were," she says "when you arrived in Winterfell so many months ago was capable of being the Queen in the North. My dear, marriage is not a _competition_. You must make compromises and meet somewhere in _betwee_n."

"I have done _everything_," I say. "I was the _perfect_ wife before. He didn't like that. He told me I had a stick up my ass."

"He actually told you that?" she asks, brows raised. "In those _exact_ words?"

"No," I say. "He asked me—verbatim—if I had any idea how many times he'd tripped over the stick coming out of my ass."

"Have you even spoken to him since that night?"

"Sure, sure," I say.

"No, I mean—have you really _spoken_ to him? Properly? Have you actually addressed the argument?"

"Well…"

To be totally honest, no. I had to switch character the night of the argument, and ever since the _Night Winter Came _he hasn't said an honest word to me. We stuck to the cordials. No complaints here.

So in the end all I had to do to get him to leave me alone was sodomize Winterfell. If I had known that it was this simple I'd have done it ages ago. I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble.

"_Talk to him_," Catelyn says. "No marriage is ever perfect in the beginning, but it'll never improve without communication. _Proper_ communication."

He doesn't seem to like me when I'm myself and he doesn't seem to like me when I'm exactly what he was hoping for. I'm not interested in communicating with an asshole that makes me feel like I have to _earn_ the right to be his wife when I'm already fucking _married to him_. Fuck that. If Robb Stark wants a cease fire, then he's gonna have to come fucking _get it_.

Back in my room, I can't help but notice how funny this all is. I've never actually been in a fight with anyone before. Usually I'm just an observer or a diplomat. My first real fight ever is with my husband. Hahahahehehe.

I don't know if Catelyn might have said something to him, but if she did, then I'm surprised at how quickly she did it. It must have been immediately clear to her that I am _not_ going to talk to Robb first. Because when I come into our bedchambers later in the evening, he's pulling on his gloves.

"Heading out so late?" I ask casually.

"I am," he says, fastening his cloak. "Will you ride with me?"

Um…_maybe_. I eye him. Like _eyeball_ him. "I suppose," I say, pulling my cloak back on and following him out.

We ride in silence through the fields until we reach the tree line, then we move along it slowly, leisurely. The stonemasons have mostly left as the Sept's construction is wrapping up, so most of the tents they've been staying in are gone. I've never seen the fields so empty before. Winterfell is completely visible from here. I don't know why, but it doesn't look the same as it did when I saw it that night with the Furrow bark in the Godswood. That night, it had looked so…forlorn. It takes me a minute to realize that it was because _I_ was forlorn that night. I look at it now. It's…pretty. In a sad sort of way.

"My mother told me once…about when she first came here. From Riverrun."

"Did she?"

"She did. She talked about how she'd never left Riverrun before, how she had been so afraid, how she felt about my father. It didn't make any sense to me how she could have felt that way…especially when I saw how perfectly at home she's always seemed in Winterfell."

"How trying," I say.

"And then…just now…I got to thinking about what it must have been like for her. To suddenly be here, so far from home, in a place she didn't know…surrounded by _people_ she didn't know. How terrified she must have been. How afraid of failure, how lonely she must have felt. I never thought about what it must have been like for you to be here. It never occurred to me that…in a way…you're carrying the same burden I am…but maybe worse. What a terrible weight for a young girl to carry. I _know_ Winterfell. I _know_ the North. The North _knows_ me. But…I suppose…to be a stranger here…it can't be easy."

No _shit_ it can't be easy. Thank you for acknowledging that.

"I don't suppose it can," I say.

"I just…I'm sorry, Israel," he says. "I said it to hurt you. It's so easy to see my own burdens but so difficult to see yours. But you know…you don't have to…to _perform_…around me."

Um, apparently I do.

"Hm."

"Really. I don't want you to. And I never wanted to make you cry. I just…I needed to believe that you could cry at all. That it was something you were capable of."

I glare at him. He backtracks quickly.

"I'm messing up again, sorry," he says. "But you know what I'm getting at, don't you? I know that you can't be yourself all the time around here, with all these…strangers watching. But when you're with me…and we're alone like this…can't you at least _try_ to be yourself?"

'_A miracle! I'm getting a lesson in propriety from a Frey girl!_'

Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

And _here_ comes the waterfall.

"You're going to have to do better than that," I say over my shoulder as I pull the reigns, angling Phillip away so Robb can't see my face. Dammit. Just when I'd promised myself this boy would never make me cry again.

"I want us to be friends," he says. "I don't want to alienate you…or make you feel like you have to put on a charade here. Winterfell is your home now. And you have my _every shred_ of confidence. Really. I _believe_ in you. And I'm sorry for making you feel like that was something that you had to earn. That night you said it like you'd been hired for a service. That you'd rebuilt _my_ home and pleased _my_ people—but I've never seen it that way. You've done great work here, Israel. You've rebuilt _our_ home and you've pleased _our _people. You're not a guest on the outside looking in. You belong here as much as anyone does. I want you to believe that."

"I don't bloody care what you want," I say. Shit. Thick voice, you are my traitor. "You called me _Frey girl_. You spat it at me like a curse."

"And you surprised me by how unlike your father you turned out to be," Robb says.

I can't wipe the tears from my eyes and hold the reigns at the same time. To avoid falling off of Phillip and breaking my fucking neck, I dismount and rub my eyes dry quickly. Shit, don't dismount, Robb. That was not an invitation for you to get closer. Hang on, wait, no—go back, go back, go back—

_And_ he's wrapped me in a hug. He's hugging me. Robb is _hugging_ me.

And then I cry. I actually cry. Just like that. I cry and try to breathe but can't properly because I'm crying too hard and it's not pretty.

I can't really tell how long we remain like this. I know Robb doesn't say anything. Good thing, too. Every time I hear his voice, I'm just hearing the words '_Frey girl_' rolling off his tongue. I don't think he's ever held me like this before. I don't think anyone has. _Ever_. But it's as I'm being held by this dumbass the Gods have decided to shackle me to that a lot of important things come into focus.

One: Robb using his lost love to bait me was a stupid fucking idea.

Two: Responding by doping all of Winterfell and instigating a castle-wide orgy was an equally stupid idea.

Three: I've been cold. As an icicle. And being cold as an icicle might not always be a bad thing when you're a queen, but if I want any chance of being able to sleep through the night again, then I need to melt a little. And I know exactly where to start.

I ball my hand up into a fist and slam it onto Robb's chest. He exhales sharply at the pain, grimacing and pulling back. I unfurl myself from his grip and take a few steps back.

No, I am not going to wrestle my husband in the fucking woods. Maybe his war experience might be an indication, but something tells me that would not end well for me. There are, however, a few obvious matters than need addressing.

"I hate the morning rides," I say to him, wiping the tears from my eyes. Well, actually, I'm sort of shrieking it at him. "I _hate_ them!"

"Okay," he says.

"And I _hate_ that _hideou_s dress!"

"I knew you would."

"And I _hate_ Ser Garret! If I could pull out his eyes with a fork and _eat them_ I would!"

"Alright."

"And Ser Brixby is a _cheeky rat_! I'll run them both through with a rusty old poker the next time I see their smug little faces! They've got their heads jammed so far into their _own assholes_ they're not even willing to let people get away with _complimenting_ the Great Sept—which will be _brilliant_, mind you—and the only reason I haven't killed them both is because I don't know how to guarantee I'll get away with it!"

"Alright."

"And I _really don't care_ if I can't tell the difference between a girl and a stud! Searching for a cock on a foal is not something that I'd ever like to put on my list of accomplishments!"

Robb eyes me confusedly.

"Al…right."

"And I _hate_ honeysuckle! I _hate_ it! And I _hate_ parsley and I _hate_ mulled wine and I _hate_ the smell of hazelnut soup! And I _hate_ that you have it served every night so that it can just sit there wasting away because you never even eat it! And I _hate_ our love schedule!"

"Our…love schedule?"

"I can't go all night, every night! I'm not a bloody _rabbit_! You put my father to _shame_ with your vigor! You're lucky if I ever even let you sleep in the _same bed_ as me again!"

"I…um…"

"And you know what? I _hate_ that stupid useless signal tower! When I first told them I wanted to build it into something else, people looked at me like the flesh was going to _melt off their faces_! Do you have _any idea_ how _frustrating _it is to try and reason with people here when you are literally the _only person_ who knows what you're doing? But somehow they manage to act like _they_ can do the job better than you can? It feels like everyone is running around like headless _chickens_, and then they go and say that '_Frey girl doesn't know what she's doing, she'll be the ruin of the North_'!"

"Alright," Robb says as he leans his weight against a nearby tree. No, don't. I feel like I'm getting closer to the end. You've had plenty of climaxes these past couple of months. Here's mine.

"I _hate_ mutton chops and I _hate_ the council and I _hate_ that _loon_ Stonemaster Edmund who prattles on about the bloody history and the First Men! Do I look like I bloody _care_ about the First Men?! Why won't anyone _shut up_ about them? Has anyone ever stopped to notice that there are _none of them left_?! Literally _how else_ would I get away with smoking Furrow bark in the Godswood if they were still lingering in the shadows to _bite my head off_?! Are you even the _slightest_ bit aware of how much of my hair has fallen out since I got to this place? My face has become a _breeding ground_ for the most horrifying blemishes—I can't—even—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I kick at the base of a nearby tree, but my first kick is too hard and it hurts my foot, so I have to kick with my other foot much gentler. When that foot hurts as well, I have to start punching the tree until I've decided that trees don't work for stress relief. But _boy_—the ground certainly does. I hit the dirt beneath my feet with a stick until my arms get tired and my chest is sore from the exertion. That's around the time I remember that I have an audience.

Robb is still standing exactly where I left him. Phillip and Shadow are still as statues. All three of them are staring at me like I have an extra head. I can't even fucking believe it. I don't think I've ever lost it like this before.

"Are you finished with your temper tantrum?" Robb asks after a few moments.

I can't answer him. Not right away. I need a few seconds to gather my breath.

"Yeah, I—think so."

"Alright. Can I take you back inside? To get your hands looked at?"

I look down at my knuckles. So they're bleeding. Yeah. I might have gone a tad overboard.

"Fine, fine."

Robb reaches to help me mount Phillip. I smack his hand away and climb onto her myself. He wordlessly mounts Shadow and lets me lead the way through the woods.

"So stringing you along with the perfume and the dress was a bad idea," he says.

Fucking duh.

"I'll say," I hiss.

"Do you think…maybe…that you might consider sleeping in our bed tonight?"

I cradle my injured knuckle. For some reason the right one is worse off than the left. It's bleeding harder, but I'm not wearing gloves so the bitter cold has pretty much numbed any pain. I glare dead ahead as I ride.

"I'll consider it," I say.

I sleep in our bed, but Robb is on his best behavior and keeps his hands to himself. I look down at my own newly bandaged hands.

"Have you ever done that before?" I ask. "Beat things up?"

"I ruined my sword on a tree once," he says. "When my father died."

"So…what do _you_ hate?" I ask him.

"I hate the cold," he says.

"Really? You hate the cold?"

"Not the real cold. I don't mind the weather. I mean…like…coldness."

I get it. Like my coldness.

"Sorry," I say. "Still new to this."

"No trouble," he says. And then he lets out an appreciative whistle. "So…I didn't think you had all that in you."

"_I_ didn't think I had all that in me."

"It was…interesting."

"I certainly hope so. Now I've got these wound on my hands—it's good to know _someone_ enjoyed it."

We're silent for a while.

"I hate lemon cakes," Robb says after a while.

"But you always eat them with your mother," I say. "I see you all the time."

"I eat them because she needs me to," he says. "She always used to have them made when my sister Sansa was still here. Now she makes them but no one else will eat them. So I have to or else she'll get teary."

"I'm sure Sansa is eating her weight in lemon cakes at Highgarden."

"Probably."

"Do you write to her often?"

"Not as often as I ought to," he says. "I hate writing letters. Put that on the list."

"Alright. You hate writing letters."

"I hate council meetings," Robb says. "I absolutely _hate_ them. I don't hate the council…just the meetings."

"Welcome to the club," I say.

He smiles at me. "Between you and me—I've never liked Ser Garret, either. Something about him is awfully _greasy_, isn't it?"

"It is," I say. "It is."

Robb is silent for a moment. He looks lost in his head somewhere, maybe about lemon cakes and his sisters in Highgarden. Maybe about his brother training with the Umbers. Maybe about that other brother missing beyond the Wall. Thinking about them gets me thinking that maybe there's a strange weight inside of Robb, too—the weight of missing family. He doesn't say anything else, but he kisses my cheek and turns over for the night.

I cover myself up completely and hug my bandaged hands to myself and try to fall asleep.

So it turns out that marriage cannot fall into any of my absolutes. Marriage is in some gray area in between, where I'll step out of one absolute and he'll step out of the other and we'll meet somewhere halfway. I don't like gray. But if I want any peace in the immediate future, I'll have to go for it.

I'm not sure what I'll say to him in the morning. I'm not sure if I'll say anything at all. I'm not sure if forgiving him is something I'm even going to _remotely_ consider doing in the next decade. All I know is that I'm suddenly seeing Catelyn in a whole new light. Once upon a time, she felt this way, too. She was alone once—alone in this strange place with these strange people. She had to deal with the newness and the second guessing and the insecurity and the judgment and the scorn and the fear of failure and once upon a time, she was as scared and alone as I am. And look at how she is _now_. She's one of them. They adore her, respect her, worship her. If she can do it, then maybe there's a chance that I can, too. Not a _probable_ just yet. Still a _possible_. Something to hope for, maybe? Who knows? I'm willing to hope at this point. I'm willing to hope for a lot of things.

"Did you seriously smoke Furrow bark in the Godswood?" Robb asks from his side of the bed.

"Go to sleep, gingersnap," I say.

"_Ginger_snap?"

I sleep well tonight. Sometime later, Robb wraps his arm around my waist and it doesn't actually put me off of sleeping. I've got the idea that sleep won't be a problem for either of us anymore. The Sept may be incomplete and people might find something new to whisper about me and maybe it's going to take a while for Robb and I to reach an agreement on how often he gets ass. But sleep will come easily from now on, and I know that's a good sign that everything else will, too—eventually.

Hello, world. I am Israel Loxley Frey Stark and I'm _still_ going to dominate you. That's an absolute.

_-end -_


	14. Epilogue

Yeah, I know I said I was done but a lot of people sent me PMs about how they wanted an epilogue. And to tell the truth, I felt like it didn't end right, either. So here it is.

**How To Handle Your Rebel King Husband Who Is Too Young To Conceivably Die of Natural Causes—Westeros Edition **

**Volume Two**

By Israel Loxley Frey Stark

So you're on semi-sturdy ground with your rebel king husband, are you? So you're sleeping again, are you? Congratulations! You now find yourself in the best/worst position any woman can possibly be in! Pat yourself on the back if you haven't thrown yourself from a tower by now—trust me, you've made it farther than most of us. Now that you've had a diva rant of epic proportions and have nearly broken four toes kicking a pine tree, you suddenly find yourself being able to sleep again. Smiles, tears, haters, and other nasty little obstacles have been managed or are in the process of being managed, so it looks like everything is just about right, isn't it?

Wrong, hotshot. Your troubles are _just_ beginning.

I'm not talking about the Scheming Asshole Stewards or the Bag O' Shit Council Members who everyday sit there at the King's table with perpetual scowls on their faces as if they're _disappointed _that their kingdom is healing. I'm not talking about the little Orphan Girl who hugs your hip every time you set foot outside of the castle. I'm not even talking about the High Septon who stops you in the hallway to preach chastity and pureness as he subtly smuggles his latest girlfriend out the other door. Actually, I _am_. I'm talking about all of the above. It's not until you're out of the first leg of the race that you realize you've still got a marathon to run. Because being the Queen of a recently independant Northern kingdom is no fun, and let it not be said that the process will get easier just because you had yourself a freak out that will make history and your husband and two horses were there to witness it. So if you think that I'm gonna guide you through the orphanages, the ribbon cutting, the boat with the bottle and all that jazz, then you're in the wrong section yet again. Because believe it or not, once you've crawled out of the newlywed phase (and if by some miracle your vagina is still intact) then you've got a lot more shit to swim through. This is not a self help book. It's a survival guide, and these are words that you (whether you like it or not) _will _end up living by so don't take them fucking lightly.

**Family:**

If you're like me, having grown up surrounded by half siblings (mostly illegitimate) and the like, then family and how to treat them is not something that should seem frightening to you. And it isn't. Not in the beginning. Not when you're first meeting the cute little blonde bubbly boy climbing out of a carriage, having just arrived from House Umber and being cradled by his mommy like he just climbed out of the womb. No, that's not a problem. The problem is when the recently reunited family begins to include you in such tedious activities like the early morning rides through the lung freezing air (see: Comparisons: Actions, Volume 1) or the treks through the equally freezing woods. Many of you queens in the north wear clothes designed for fashion, not function, and said fashionable but not functional clothes do not do much to protect you from hypothermia in this weather. You own one or two fur coats but your goal was never to actually _use_ them. This is not a decision made by a smart spending wife who hopes to save a few gold coins. This is a decision made by a tactical genius who does not want to ever set foot outside of the castle when she doesn't absolutely have to. His family will not take this hint. You will order new furs to avoid getting frostbite on your spleen. Say whatever you want. It will happen.

The family will also take every step available to inconvenience you by making you feel really uncomfortable. They will talk to you about their dead dad. They will talk to you about their sisters in Highgarden. They will involve you in 'family activities' far more annoying than the morning ride through the icy northern air, such as the _evening_ rides through the icy northern air and maybe even the after dinner tea and lemon cakes. Take some solace in the fact that your husband hates lemon cakes more than you hate hanging around his family and you might find the situation slightly sweeter.

The family will also put you in painfully awkward positions late after dinner when everyone is having a nightcap of wine or spirits to help ease their aching heads into sleep. Oh, hey, we've got a foreigner among us! Let's regale her with the sad, miserable war stories that led us all to become an independant kingdom and hope that the graphic details we give her won't be enough to make her regurgitate her dinner! Here's to hoping!

If you've got a strong stomach, you will hold your dinner down for maybe an hour or two. But at some point before you go to bed, you will be bent over a bucket and your maid will be holding your hair out of your face and you will be having nightmares about a battle field in smoke for days afterwards. My advice—from one northern queen to another—go to bed _straight_ after dinner. Trust me. If you want to hold down what you ate, you'll find your bed chambers much more appealing than the drawing room. Family is part of home and comfort, that much is true. No denying it. But bear in mind that these people are _his_ family, not yours, so your emotional/physical well being was never too high on their priority list to begin with.

**Lady's Maids**

Your Lady's Maids are a gigantic part of your everyday life. Literally who else could have the patience and dedication to wake you up at like nine in the morning and help you prepare for a day full of haters, hating, Kale and weird horse gender mix-ups day in and day out?

Well...anyone. Because your lady's maids could literally be anyone on the street. Just about _anyone_ could do their job—and probably better. But your lady's maids come hardwired to serve and protect you in whatever ways they can. They're not bodyguards—they can't save you from assassins. But they're a different sort of protector that can prove to be equally challenging: instead of swords, they carry pretty fans or gold-spun drawstring purses. Instead of daggers, they have nice words and white smiles and their brains are fucking _banks_. I'm not kidding. These girls dress like you so basically everyone can recognize them as your girls, but somehow they manage to slip into the shadows conveniently to pick up juicy bits of information than can make your day to day life a gazillion times easier. You will be awakened at nine in the morning and your faithful maid will be there to solemnly inform you that they've gotten word that Scheming Asshole Steward is planning on cancelling your order of bluewine and replacing it with Dornish white wine at the King's name day feast. And then by the time she's informed you of this coup de tat, she's already got twelve different ideas forming in her head on how to thwart this magnificent plan of his and guess what? Her plans don't actually involve stabbing him to death with a quill! And you know what? When you first hear this horrible catastrophy that Scheming Asshole Steward has planned, your thoughts all run along the lines of 'bloody murder', whereas your lady's maid, who has already had the appropriate time to entertain these thoughts, has overcome her shock/anger and is ready and waiting with a plan.

See? Useful.

There's also the little things they do that make your life bearable. Like holding your hair out of your face as you regurgitate your dinner (see: Family) or holding the leash for your savage pet wolf. They also double as therapists but you need to be careful. If, like me, you've projected an image of calmness and perfection, then your therapy sessions will be limited to one or two sentences about how exhausting your life is. For example:

'Life as a queen can be truly exhausting sometimes.'

That. Is. It. Do not go any further. Because believe it or not, these girls will eventually get married and new ones will enter your service, and the fact that they will one day leave Winterfell with the knowledge that you regurgitate your dinner nightly is bad enough. Get too comfortable and they'll be building themselves an arsenal of juicy, humiliating details about the life of the northern queen and you'd be surprised how much shit they'll have on you.

Cautious you may be, but don't forget to be friendly. These are the girls that handle your clothes and your pets and manage your day to day lives. If you want to avoid being poisoned one day, you kind of need them to like you. But that friendliness ought to stem from a real, genuine appreciation, because nothing is more reassuring than waking up to a young girl's pretty face as she informs you that no less than three people saw you puke into a bucket last night right before she informs you that she's already found blackmail material for damage control.

**Pets:**

No queen can call herself royalty without a few furry companions. And she's got especial edge if said companions scare the tar out of people. As a northern queen myself, I'd recommend a direwolf. Your rebel king husband's house sigil is a direwolf, after all, so of course nothing would shut people up more than the fact that an animal that so perfectly embodies the north has chosen you as his master. Particularly if said direwolf refuses to even let most people breathe the same air as him. The bottom line is that most of the time, your furry companions will be total assholes—even more so than the people you encounter on a daily basis—but this will not be a bad thing for once because these particular assholes are actually _on your side_. They will growl at people that you do not like. They will shit on the head of Scheming Asshole Steward. They will neigh and rearkick the stable boy who called you a bitch last weekend. Why? Because your pets are from the North, just like the people who very much enjoy making you suicidal, and that means that the tendency to be total dicks is as much in their blood as it is in the people's. You reap what you sew, motherfuckers.

Mind you, your pets are not therapists, either. You cannot complain to them about life because a) they don't understand you, b) they wouldn't give a shit if they did and c)most of the time you're going to be trying to prevent them from killing each other. Which they _will_ try to do. Semi-regularly. Chivalry may be slowly dying in the world, but I'm fairly certain it never even existed between animals.

While on the topic of pets, I ought to tell you how to handle your husband's. This guy is a king, therefore his pet is the most badass by default. You're going to be competing with a big gray direwolf for the public's affections maybe fifty percent of the time, and that's an absolute. Unsurprisingly, the direwolf is usually going to be better liked than you. Nothing personal, just that people around here don't take much liking to anything that has 'Made In Somewhere Other Than the North' written on the tag. And if it were up to them, then their precious ginger king would be pumping his meat into a wolf every night of the week instead of a Frey girl, because apparently Frey girls are pretty fucking low on the social heirarchy here. Your instance of power—marrying aforementioned gingersnap—is a terrble mistake that everyone wishes they would take back no matter how gorgeous your newly completed Great Sept is and regardless of the fact that the castle now glows during the sunset. _Glows._ Like a fucking _star_.

I'm going off topic here.

Anyways, this wolf of his is absolutely terrifying and isn't too quick to befriend people, but unlike your own savage pet wolf, your husband's wolf isn't a total bitch. He's mature and quiet and really fucking cool, except when he stares into your eyes and looks at you as if he knows just how desperately you wish you could pull out a flaming crossbow and shoot everyone in sight. And every night when you tuck into bed, he will nudge your hand softly as though silently thanking you for all the effort you put into not being a serial killer. He is the only living creature—human or not—who will do this, so you'd better believe that this is the closest thing you'll be getting to a true friend that you're not obligated to actually talk to.

**Hating on Haters**

It will happen. You will hear something nasty whispered in passing. Your lady's maid will come bearing news of Scheming Asshole Steward's newest plan to fuck you over and make himself shine. Or someone will simply not give due appreciation for the newly completed Great Sept. It doesn't matter how it gets to you because it will. And you will act like it doesn't bother you but it will. It will slow simmer in your brain for hours at the best and weeks at the worst and there is not a damn thing you can do about it because it will sting the same every single time. If you're a grown ass human being, then you will be able to simply shrug off the meanness you encounter daily. And if you're an immature angry teenager who was almost literally dragged into the spotlight kicking and fucking screaming, then you will take a more/less wise approach: you will seize every opportunity to show people just how useless they are and just how much shit they'd be eating without you.

Believe it or not, Rebel King Husband can be useful here. Because husbands deal with you day in and day out, they usually get a good look at how much work you put into something. And if your backwater gingersnap husband is a rebel king that fought for the winning side, then he will most definitely understand that your frustration with his subjects can—and _will_—one day end in everyone being eaten alive in a canniballistic rage. This chronic terror that you will eat his subjects will result in all sorts of neat gifts. The recently completed Sept will have a plaque of jewel encrusted silver honoring you. The observatory will be named after you. A bronze sculpture of a wolf will be erected in your honor. Everywhere you look, there will be standing memories of your greatness/contributions to these people masking the silent prayer your husband is making to the Gods that his wife won't snap and bite everyone's head off their shoulders.

It's going to take a while to get into the groove of things, but the unfortunate, inconvenient truth is that these people are always going to hate you. No matter what you say, what you do, what you've done already, they will hate your rotten Riverland guts. They will hate that they are not you, that they can never be you, and you must accept the fact that these people will need at least a decade or so to get used to you. Remember when you're in doubt that your Riverland-born mother in law got these people's heads inside her asshole at _some_ point in the last twenty odd years, so you definitely can, too. Until then, haters gonna hate. Just keep them eating shit until they decide to cough it up. Eventually they'll all come around. One by one. Keyword: _eventually_.

**Food:**

Your homeland and the North are two different places. Although you both have things like sheep and bulls and fish and stuff, nothing will change the fact that in a new place, it's hard to eat their food. It doesn't matter how good or bad the cooking is. It will freak you out. You will drink nothing but water for the first three weeks. This will happen. You will wake up and go to sleep thinking about the food that people have been forking down. You will feel gross and uncomfortable at the idea of eating it yourself. If you shovelled veal down your throat every night of the week back at the Twins, then you will only get in a bite or two before you get sick to your stomach in Winterfell. It will be several months and maybe twenty pounds lost before you finally have it in you to eat half a plate of food. The upside is that your measurements will make everyone jealous.

Because your body doesn't seem to care how uncomfortable you are, you _do_ actually need to put something into the tank to avoid dying of starvation. In such situations, I suggest you find something you can recognize that doesn't require every ounce of your concentration to convince yourself isn't going to make you vomit up your trachea. Lemon cakes, perhaps? Or maybe even a good old fashioned slice of honey bread? Whatever keeps your blood pumping until you can actually eat people food.

And then the next big step is eating the actual _people_.

**Music Night:**

Musicians are aplenty in a king's court, but every now and again a bunch of college trained bards and minstrels are gonna roll into the castle, and when that happens, then I sincerely hope you've got yourself a dandy hangover cure. You're gonna need it. Not for yourself, of course, but for your rebel king backwater gingersnap husband because I guarantee you that you will not recognize him the morning after Music Night. But let it not be said that rebel king backwater gingersnap hungover husband looks any less fabulous than he always does—just closer to dead.

The songs sung during a Music Night are the same in every Westerosi territory, but of course every land has its own favorites. In the north, you will find songs about snow and ice and war and blood and bloodshed and men and slaughter and manslaughter and wolves and swords and the freezing morning air and the freezing _evening_ air and mead.

You are not expected to partake in the singing. But you are also not allowed to leave until it's done. I'm not kidding. Try to get up around one in the morning because you're so tired you could sleep on the table. They will not let you go. You will be cheered back to your seat and handed a tall glass of mead or wine and you will not even want to drink it. You will be pinned there in your seat. Once the minstrels have passed out from inebriation (typically at three or four in the AM), you can be forgiven for thinking that you can go to bed at last. Wrong again. You will be dragged back to your seat to witness the drunken lords and Sers of your husband's court as they all pick up the instruments from the bodies of the unconscious performers and they will proceed to pick up where they left off. Everyone will be tripping or falling over something. Absolute carnage. And you will have no choice but to watch every painful minute of it.

On the upside, you will be allowed to sleep in the next day. And because you are not hungover, you will look reasonably better than most of the people that you see.

On the _upper_ upside, Music Night happens maybe once every few months. So your brain has some chance to recover, but never forget the profound effect that music and liquor can have on some people. Hell hath no fury like a minstrel with a pint of mead.

**Bodyguards:**

Haters hate. It's a fact of life. They hate and they glare and they lurk around with their eyes, ears and bananas peeled searching for some slip up to exploit. But the bottom line is that at the end of the day, these haters are nothing more than sour critics and the truth is that none of them would ever wish to actually do you any real harm. However, because you are a queen, it goes without saying that the Bag O' Shit Council Members and your Rebel King Husband and most of the other people you encounter daily are still thoroughly convinced that there are people out there in the wide, vast world—people you have never even heard of—who for some unknown reason really want to fuck you up. For situations like this, I'd recommend carrying a knife, but of course because you're a queen in the end, that's not enough. You need a bodyguard.

I strongly recommend that you hop onto the band wagon as soon as you can. A bodyguard will happen. I'm sorry. It's true. You can try to fight it but it will not work. A bodyguard will be assigned to you if you take too long, so jump on the wagon early and get a chance to pick one out for yourself. If, like me, you're not overly fond of the idea of being followed around by some beefy, muscly guy five times your size who could just as easily rape you himself as he could save you from being raped, then I'd recommend the next best thing: a beefy, muscly _woman_ five times your size who could turn the tables and let any guy who tries to touch you feel what it's like to take it in the ass. Mind you, this beefy, muscly woman will already be sworn to serve your mother in law and you'll have to sit through a few painful conversations where she reminisces her dead husband before she decides that you have more use for that bodyguard than she does.

And what's cool about having a girl as your bodyguard is that it sort of demonstrates how much no one should fuck with you. You're so badass you don't even need a guy to keep people five feet away from you. This queen in the north is so cool that her entire entourage is made up of girls. Even her _bodyguard_ is a girl that could probably make mince meat out of any guy scratching his balls in the king's barracks. And because she's a girl, she comes with a naturally enhanced sense of smell which means that you won't have to deal with a sweat smelling ball of odor problems. The only downside is that every month she'll be virtually incapacitated and leave you suddenly vulnerable to whoever out there wants to fuck you up.

This aside, treat your bodyguard right. Like your lady's maids, this person is a part of your daily life and also has access to food and drink that you consume. There's also the touchy little fact that this person routinely carries a weapon. So it goes without saying that you need her to like you. But again—like your Lady's Maids—be genuine. The only thing more reassuring than a blackmailing lady's maid is the satisfying feeling of walking down the halls with a six foot something woman who could peel a person's face back off their head.

**Boredom**

Your mother in law has begun to talk about her early life in Winterfell. The Maester has started to go on about the teachings of the college. The council meeting has a taken a turn to discuss finances. Or it's a weekend. What do all of these instances have in common? In every last one of them, you'll be bored to tears. This will happen and it will happen often. There is no avoiding it. By the end of the first month as queen, you will have perfected the art of being bored out of your fucking skull.

Boredom is part of a three piece set, closely allied with procrastination and distraction. It's a pretty shitty family. You'd think that by being bored, you'd be inspired to run those errands you've been putting off, but you're so distracted by your boredom that you literally can't even move. What did I tell you? Triplets. I guess the more active people out there would seize the opportunity or whatever, but for the majority of people out there, boredom is more of a chance to lie around and stare at their fingerprints than it is to do something as tedious as that outline that's due in like an hour.

So the next time you find yourself sinking into the cushions of your sofa counting the specs in the air, remember that this makes you an artist—a scholar. Not the lazy, entitled, whiny shit you probably are. Boredom is art. Who didn't want to be an artist once in their lives?

**Pretending to Be Listening:**

The Maester will have caught you in the hallway during one of your precious few moments of peace. The little brother in law will have dragged you along for a walk through the forest. An old crone will be going on about how she could swear she smelled Furrow bark in the godswood once. These are just a few of the situations you will find yourself in where you will have no choice but to pretend that you are listening. You will not have the option to wave it off and walk away. Every single time, you will have to smile and nod and tilt your head interestedly and pretend that you are actually hearing what these people are trying to tell you.

It's not just for these chance conversations. Council meetings will be a good rehearsal ground as well. In a matter of months, you will have razor sharp pretending skills. Unfortunately, pretending to be listening is not a good thing because these people are usually telling you important things so hearing them is sort of non-negotiable. This will apply to Orphan girl who hugs you every morning as you trek through the grounds. This will apply to Scheming Asshole Steward who plays a drinking game every time you open your mouth. This will apply to Rebel King Husband when he does or says just about anything. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Sorry. You have to listen.

**Two-Faced (In)activists:**

You know what I mean. The people who say 'someone should do something' while looking pointedly at you as they do nothing. A support in the inner courtyard needs bracing? Someone should _do_ something! A band of silent sisters has gone missing? Someone should _do_ something! Ser Holland is choking on a fishbone? Someone should _do_ something! How much they go on about what needs to be done will always be inversely proportional to how much they actually _get_ done. This is why there are council meetings.

Here, more than anywhere else, is where the Bag O' Shit Council Members gather regularly to discuss problems—and thereby make them worse.

**Fact: any problem can be made worse if enough meetings are held to discuss it.**

**Fact: no one will care about the above fact. They will have meetings to pretend that they are actually doing something. **

**Fact: if they are holding a meeting to discuss it, that means that you are going to be the one to make the problem disappear.**

These northern people love their meetings. They will meet to discuss weapons, medicine, storage, and even the week's menu. Different people, different groups, same two faced (in)activists.

**Bitching:**

There's a lot of things you left behind when you came to the North. This list includes but is not limited to your home, your family, your feeling of comfort and your peace of mind. You will be surrounded on all ends by weary, sour people hardened by the cold and this will take its toll on you. You will want to bitch to someone, and there's only one candidate who can take up this job: Rebel King Husband.

Up until recently, the Rebel King Husband would have been the last person you'd complain to about anything. But after a particularly peculiar episode involving lots of screaming and kicking a pine tree, this guy has suddenly morphed into your personal therapist. He will pour you a glass of wine at the end of every day and you will drain the entire thing while debating what poison to feed to that Bag O' Shit Council Member. He will join the debate. Not because he's serious—don't get your hopes up—but because he's bitching, too. So there it is. You will develop an unofficial scheduled nightly session where you consume liberal amounts of wine and complain about your lives and the people that you hate. And then, in maybe a month, you will give these sessions a name. You will call them Wine and Bitch. I'm not fucking kidding. You will do it.

Rebel King Husband will not mind that you are contemplating the murder of his council because Rebel King Husband has taken a great liking to your honesty behind closed doors (see: Groping). Rebel King Husband is an asshole who will leave you at the mercy of the in laws for a week and a half while he goes on an extended hunting trip, but he will never miss out on an opportunity to Wine and Bitch.

**Groping:**

A minor freak-out in the woods will not change this. He will probably ease up a little once he's watched you almost break your fist punching a tree, but it will never stop completely.

**Fact: your Rebel King Husband is a toddler who will do things that piss you off on purpose to jerk a reaction out of you.**

He will smack your ass. He will wink at you. He will kiss you at the dinner table. He will follow you around to every single meeting—even with the cooks. Aside from sending the message to all of Winterfell that he's hot and bothered, he's also sending the secret message to you that you're getting sort of cold and he's trying to tease out that firecracker he saw in the woods. You will respond to these situations by giving him a very brief glimpse of said firecracker—scream at the top of your lungs as you throw something heavy at his head.

Nights will be surmountable, however, because you will finally have the balls to tell this guy to use his hands every now and again. So the two nights of peace, if you're careful, can become as many as three or four—if he's feeling generous. Which he will _not_ feel most of the time.

This is not a two-way street. He will not become shy and respectable when you smack his ass in public. You will instead be instantly repenting because he will be searching for the nearest closet. He will do it. And you will regret it.

**Kale:**

So the family is a nightmare and your head is pounding and being a queen is worse than being castrated with a blunt rock. There are lots of ways to react to these unfortunate circumstances you now find yourself in. The best/worst of these is a handy flask of Kale.

Kale, the miracle drink made from pressure boiled potatoes, is a double headed snake. One head consumes your problems, the other head consumes _you_. More than three sips at a time of this stuff could make you go blind. So you only take one at a time, and only when you truly need it. And a word of advice—keeping it stashed in your husband's study is a terrible idea. He will find it and he will know it's yours and he will laugh at you for three weeks _straight_ because of it.

**Kids:**

You will have to smile at them. You will have to kiss them. You will have to sit them on your lap and listen to their sob stories one by one. You will have to hold their hands and laugh with them and pretend that you are sad that you're too busy to play with them. And once people see you with kids, they'll start asking the big question: where the fuck is _yours_?

**Fact: queens are supposed to have children. A queen who cannot have a child is not a real queen.**

If your Rebel King Husband is largely aware of the fact that you have slight...fertility issues (you are—in all likelihood—barren as a brick) then you both have reached a stalemate to never discuss children with anyone. That will not stop people from asking. That will not stop the stares and the underlying question 'when will you give us an heir?'. Like _whoa_, people. Are you sure you want a baby mothered by a Frey girl?

So of course being the skinny bitch with no bun in the oven that you are, people will believe that your job is still not entirely done yet. And in truth it's not. You're not off the hook until you've got something cooking in that old, dusty womb of yours. So for those northern queens who have painful odds of delivering children, I say carry yourself with the knowledge that your measurements will be forever flawless. At least until you wake up one morning and find yourself ready to vomit all over the place right before it occurs to you that your bleeding is later than usual. Well by golly, you're knocked up.

About the author:

Israel Loxley Frey Stark was born and raised at the Twins. She currently lives in Winterfell with her husband Robb, two savage wolves, two he-she horses, and a non-housebroken falcon.

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Sequel, anyone?

It's called Definitives, and it's coming soon so keep up.


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